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HERSELF— IRELAND 




■■y:^f^^^^■ 



The Four Courts, Dublin 

Designed by Cooley, an Irish Architect (Page 6i) 



HEESELF-IRELAND 



BY 



ELIZABETH P; O'CONNOR 

(MRS. T. P. O'CONNOR) 
Author of "My Beloved South," **I Myself," etc. 



ILLUSTRATED 




NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1918 



.(Dz 



Copyright, 1918, bt 
OODD. MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. 



FEB -7 1918 



£)CI.A4816a8 



TO 

THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE LOVED IRELAND 

TOO WELL TO LEAVE HER. 

AND TO THOSE WHO, STILL LOVING HER, HAVE 

HELPED MAKE MY COUNTRY THE 

GREATEST OF REPUBLICS 



AN APOLOGY 

A VERY brilliant Irishman, Oscar Wilde, claimed 
to be a seer in palmistry. 

Many years ago, at a gay little gathering, he 
oifered to read the hand of any guest whose char- 
acter could stand the light of publicity. 

" I will not move away from the fire and tea," 
he said, " and go into a dark corner to screen the 
iniquities of any person present; but in this magic 
circle, in the full light of the lamp, I am prepared 
to reveal in classical English the past, present, 
and future of a daring heart." 

His eyes danced with deviltry, he made a dra- 
matic gesture, " Lady with courage, lend me your 
hand." 

I immediately laid mine open upon the table. 
He bent his head, and concentrated his attention 
on the many divergent lines. 

"You are Irish?" 

" No, there is not a drop of Irish blood in my 
veins." 

" Then," he said frowning, " there is no excuse 
for your character." 

Much laughter followed, and more when he 
began his paradoxes. 



viii AN APOLOGY 

*' You are religious, and you have no religion. 
You are a spendthrift, and you save. You are 
amiable, and you have a high temper. You are 
passionate, and cold. You are sympathetic, and 
hard. You are forgiving, but never forgive. 
Therefore, in spite of the American Eagle, and 
your corporeal body, you are Irish." 

These idle words spoken in jest and forgotten 
for years, have been a whimsical help in writing 
this book. For at least I have felt to-day, as on 
that light-hearted afternoon, in sympathy with 
the Irish. 

I am a writer of necessity — not of talent. 
Therefore this book will not bring any additional 
light on that lively, ever-recurrent, and absorbing 
topic of interest. The Irish Question. Nor will 
it contain any new interpretation of the political 
situation, nor any erudite or important informa- 
tion. Various kindly people interested in my 
work, have questioned me as to its character. The 
first asked if it was to be a book of travel? I 
said, " Not altogether that." A brother-in-arms 
with a methodical mind, enquired if I intended 
dividing it into Sections? With my vagrant wits, 
that was a terribly discouraging question. An- 
other questioner asked if it was to be a guide-book? 
That too lowered my courage, and when the lady 
persisted in a definition I could only answer, " It's 
just a book." But notwithstanding its wants and 



AN APOLOGY ix 

limitations, it is written with honesty of purpose, 
and a keen desire to arouse in my reader — who, 
I hope will be as ignorant of Ireland as I was 
when I arrived in Dublin, almost a year ago now 
— an interest in the country which has proved of 
such absorbing interest to me. I can only liken 
my pages to an hors dfoeuvre served before a 
banquet. The little salted fish is but to increase 
the appetite for better things to come. Herself — 
Ireland is for the same purpose, a slight fillip 
to the feast of other and more worthy con- 
freres. 

I am not a politician. Literature, poetry, art, 
music, science, friendship, character, all make their 
appeal, but politics and politicians leave me cold. 
Until I came to Ireland, The Irish Question to 
me was a closed book, although I have heard it 
discussed for years. Now my opinions are, like 
the Faith of the people, clear and definite. It is 
not however of Irish politics I have written, but 
of Ireland and the Irish, who in many ways 
resemble my own race, the people of the 
South. 

I have lived in England thirty years, and admire 
the English. I had not lived in Ireland thirty 
days, before I loved the Irish. England appeals 
to the head. Ireland appeals to the heart. Eng- 
land is good for the body. Ireland is good for 
the soul. And whatever of bitterness or unfor- 



X AN APOLOGY 

givingness towards life I brought to these green 
shores, is buried and put away for ever, by con- 
tact with people of indestructible Faith, unselfish 
purpose, and not only brave — but cheerful, and 
even gay — endurance of poverty. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Why I Went to Ireland .... 1 

II The Rebellion of 1916 21 

III Old Dublin 54 

IV Dean Swift 82 

V Hicks, a Man Without Price ... 94 

VI Old Ireland, and the Little White 

Flower 112 

VII Irish Wit 128 

VIII The Irish Temperament .... 153 

IX A Performing Zoo 173 

X The Treasures of Ireland . . . .184 

XI The National Gallery 200 

XII Cork and Queenstown 233 

XIII KiLLARNEY 260 

XIV Limerick 279 

XV A Pleasant Tour 293 

XVI Galway, an Old City of the West . . 328 

XVII Evergreen Friendship 351 

XVIII Mitchelstown Castle and an Irish Eo- 

mance 367 

My Irish Year 388 



XI 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Four Courts, Dublin, designed by Cooley, an 

Irish architect (page 62) . . . Frontispiece'- 

FAOINS 
PAGB 

Devenish Bound Tower, Lough Erne . . . 10"^ 
St. John's, Wellington Place, Clyde Road, Dublin . 28- 
"Kit" (French pocJiette) or dancing-master's fid- 
dle. By Perry of Dublin. Late eighteenth 

century 42" 

Portrait of an Irish Lady 66' 

Peg Woffington, National Gallery, Dublin . . . 88" 
The Cross of Cong. Made for Turlough O 'Conor, 
King of Ireland in 1123, designed as a shrine 
worthy to hold a piece of the true cross . . 100' 
End of Saloon, with organ, at Carton, the Family 

Seat of the Duke of Leinster . . . .118 
Loving Cups, Dublin make, 1730, 1775 . . .136 

Miss Kitty Grunning 160"^ 

Lion Cubs at the Dublin Zoo 174' 

** General" and ''Captain" are as well trained ele- 
phants as the usual performing animals of a 

circus 182' 

Ceiling, Wall Panelling, Doors, Mantel-piece, and 
Fire-grates from Tracton House, St. Stephen's 
Green. The Ceiling dated 1746 .... 186^^ 
ziii 



xiv ILLUSTRATIONS 



FACING 
PAOE 



The Tara Brooch. Made about 700 a.d. and discov- 
ered in 1850 on Strand at Bettystown near 

Drogheda 194*^ 

Gold Lunula. Found in 1836 at Barrisnoe near the 
eastern side of Benduff Mountain, Tipperary 

County 194"^ 

The Piping Boy. By Nathaniel Hone .... 204"^ 
The Village School. By Jan Steen . . . . 216^^ 
Harpsichord, mahogany with ornamental brass mount- 
ings. By Ferdinand Weber, Dublin. The prop- 
erty of Robert W. Smythe, Esq 240"" 

Scenes in the Lake Country 268 '^ 

On the Road to Parknasilla 284^ 

In the Hotel Garden, Parknasilla 298" 

Poisoned Glen and Marble Church, Dunlewy, Gwee- 

dore 310*^ 

Island where a Girl lived alone. Lough Gill, Sligo . 338*^ 

Doneraile Court 356*^ 

Mitchelstown Castle 374 "^ 



THE WEST'S ASLEEP 

When all beside a vigil keep, 

The West's asleep, the West's asleep. 

Alas! and well may Erin weep 

When Connaught lies in slumber deep. 

There lake and plain smile fair and free, 

'Mid rocks — their guardian chivalry. 

Sing, oh! let man learn liberty 

From crashing wind and lashing sea. 

That chainless wave and lovely land 
Freedom and Nationhood demand; 
Be sure the great God never planned 
For slumbering slaves a home so grand. 
And long a brave and haughty race 
Honoured and sentinell'd the place. 
Sing, oh ! not e'en their sons' disgrace 
Can quite destroy their glory's trace. 

For often in O'Connor's van 
To triumph dashed each Connaught man. 
And fleet as deer the Normans ran 
Through Curlieu's Pass and Ardrahan. 
And later day saw deeds as brave, 
And glory guards Clanricarde's grave. 
Sing, oh! they died their land to save 
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave. 

And if, when all a vigil keep. 

The West's alseep, the West's asleep — 

Alas! and well may Erin weep 

That Connaught lies in slumber deep. 

But hark! some voice like thunder spake. 

"The West's awake! the West's awake!" 

We'll watch till death for Erin's sake — 

The West's awake! the West's awake! 

• — Thomas Davis. 



HERSELF— IRELAND 



CHAPTER I 

WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 

It is not day yet 

(Old Gaelic Proverb) 

"Why do you go to Ireland?" said an English 
friend. " The country is under Martial Law, 
Dublin is in ruins, there is sure to be another 
uprising, and you will probably be shot." 

" Nobody from Texas is afraid of a familiar 
little thing like a bullet, and nothing can be so 
good for the circulation as an insurrection. How 
the exaltation of spirit would make the blood race 
through the body. I shall go to Ireland the day 
after to-morrow." 

" Is it necessary to select this particular time? 
You have never been interested in Irish politics." 

" That's just it, I carry with me a nice clean 
mind, like a sheet of white paper, for Imperialist, 
Nationalist, Idealist or Sinn Feiner to write upon. 
The spring and summer are before me, and at 
this moment Ireland is the most interesting coun- 
try in Europe. Men who were alive and loved life, 
loved Ireland more, and have just died for her." 

" Once a rebel, always a rebel," said my friend. 

1 



2 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" You were obliged to have Martial Law in 
your own country, you know something about 
it." 

" Yes," I said, " and as long as the South was 
under mihtary disciphne she never raised her de- 
spairing head; it was a hopeless chaotic country 
until the reins of government were in her own 
hands again." 

"Then you are already a Home Ruler?" 

" I can better tell you what I am, after I have 
lived in Ireland." 

" I'll forgive you Home Rule," said my friend, 
" but I draw the hne at a Sinn Feiner." 

" Lines," I said, " are elastic, and are deter- 
mined by time and point of view. A rebel of 
1916 may be a hero in 2016. In 1836 a young 
uncle of mine who had just taken his degree at 
Bardstown — the college where Louis Phillipe was 
a professor, when they were after his head in 
France, even Monarchs are sometimes rebels — 
raised a regiment of soldiers, the flower of 
Kentucky manhood, and marched into Texas to 
capture it from the Mexicans. These young 
Southerners fought with desperate bravery, but 
were taken prisoners by the Mexicans, and shot. 
Mexico regarded them as traitors, and even the 
young United States thought them foolhardy 
visionaries. But they started the ball rolling, 
eventually Texas was wrested from the Mexicans, 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 3 

became a Republic, later a State; and to-day a 
granite monument of imposing dimensions, stands 
in front of the Capitol, to record the daring of 
Captian Burr Duval and his brave followers. The 
youth of Texas only know these men as heroes, not 
as rebels. So who can tell how history may, after 
a century or two have passed, regard the uprising 
in Ireland? " 

" You 'say you are not a politician," said my 
friend, " but that does not modify your convictions. 
I am sure you think you could have averted this 
war." 

*' Anybody could prevent war, who had power to 
send the King, the Privy Council, the House of 
Commons, the Cabinet, the House of Lords, the 
members of the Government, and all editors and 
journalists, to open the campaign. After three 
months' dignified, ponderous, middle-aged, and 
decorous fighting, the Army and Navy could then 
be called upon to join the fray." 

" And in your native land, — what would you 
do there? " 

" The President," I said, " the Cabinet, the Sen- 
ate and House, the Judges of the Supreme Court, 
and all fire-eating editors and journalists, should 
bare patriotic breasts to the enemy, before rein- 
forcements came from the Army." 

" Your theories are too altruistic for adoption, 
but if you really intend going to Ireland, I'll 



4 HERSELF— IRELAND 

drive you to the station, and you can make ar- 
rangements for your journey. Have you got a 
fur coat? If not I'll lend you mine." 

" Even if I come back a Sinn Feiner? " 

" Yes, if you'll only come back; you see I can 
talk to you, as if we both lived in a palace of 
truth. You are a fool, but not a vain fool." 

When without misunderstanding, two women 
can call each other fools and liars, their house of 
friendship is built upon a rock. 

" I don't want you to go to Ireland," said my 
confidante and comfort. Rose, " but of course I'll 
pack for you. Will you need clothes for a short 
or a long time? " 

" That," I said, " is on the knees of the gods. A 
week will be long enough if I'm disappointed, if 
not I'U stay six months, or perhaps for ever, who 
knows, so there must be separations in my ward- 
robe, winter garments somewhere out of reach, 
a summer outfit for the later months, and spring 
garments to hand." 

" It reminds me," said Rose, " of the good old 
days at Oakley Lodge, when Cook went up to 
you for orders, and asked, ' How many to dinner. 
Madam?' And you said, 'Ellen, I don't know 
if I'll be alone, or if there will be fourteen to 
dine.' " 

" When I kept house I wasn't so bad as that, 
Rose. It sounds like me, but Ellen must have 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 5 

had a sense of character, and invented the con- 
versation." 

" No, she did not. Madam ; it was what you told 
her; for seven came, Ellen said it was a tempta- 
tion to teach you a lesson, but she relented; for 
she really hked dinner parties. We all did." 

Being equal to any emergency. Rose packed for 
the week, or the year, waked me in time for the 
early train, and I crossed by day to Dublin. I 
had been up late the night before, was tired and 
depressed, but when I set foot on Irish soil, a 
word of sympathy cheered me in the greeting of 
old Davy Stevens, the elderly newsboy of Kings- 
town, who observed my weary eyes, and said: 

" Buy a picture paper Lady avick, then you 
won't have to read." 

One of the most striking qualities of the Irish 
is perception. They divine your mental and 
physical condition by intuition, and even the 
lower classes have singularly good manners. 
With tradition behind them, manners are to them 
an instinct, for no matter how humble in occupa- 
tion an O'Brien, or an O'Donohue, or an O'Grady 
may be, he is the kinsman of a one-time King 
or Prince. I know working people in Dublin, 
who washed — yes, I must acknowledge they would 
have to be washed — and suitably dressed, could 
pass muster in any society. I have met an Irish- 
woman married to an English gentleman, who 



6 HERSELF— IRELAND 

began life as a furniture polisher. She is romanti- 
cally pretty, and not only are her manners good, 
but she is serenely at ease, and is as cultivated 
and agreeable, as any woman of my acquaintance. 
Pretentiousness is vulgar. The lower classes in 
Ireland are never pretentious. But I regret to 
say, when they emigrate to America, they take on 
the worst featiu-es of the pushing polygot Ameri- 
can. There, they too often exchange simplicity 
for self-assurance, and modesty for braggadocio, 
and the Irish Yankee who returns to his native 
country is seldom popular, with either priest or 
people. 

On my arrival in Dublin, I went to the Shel- 
bourne Hotel, where it is said, if you stay long 
enough, as in London and Paris, you will meet 
(every one you know. Enghsh people come to 
Dubhn, for the Horse Show, for the races, for 
the hunting, — they come for a thousand reasons, — 
but they come. And sooner or later at lunch or 
dinner, you meet your friends at the Shelbourne. 

Putting aside any interest one may have in Ire- 
land, the Hotel is an exceptionally comfortable 
and satisfactory place of abode. In the first place, 
there is hot water. Not warm water. But boiling 
water, like the natural geysers of Australia. You 
can take a cure by drinking it, and you can have 
an enlivening bath at any hour of the day or of 
the night. And such water! As soft and tender 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 7 

as the down on a newly hatched chicken's breast. 
A httle soap goes a long way in this pale blue 
limpid fluid. Hair after being washed is satin- 
smooth to the touch, and the lustrous Irish poplin, 
and the excellent stout and whiskey, are said to 
owe their renown to Dubhn water. The Shel- 
bourne's other pleasant qualities, perceptible to 
sensitive olfactories, are an agreeable odour of 
good scrubbing soap. Ice pohsh, and clean linen. 
Generously proportioned, well-furnished bed- 
rooms. Adequate and willing service. Constant 
attention at the telephone. A gopd table of elastic 
hours. A lounge large enough — no matter how 
fully peopled — to ensure a quiet corner with a 
friend, and an atmosphere withal of interest 
and friendly kindness. What more can be wanted, 
or asked for in any Inn? If I could always be 
sure of the same measure of comfort, I would start 
to-morrow on a journey around the world. 

The few people I knew in Dublin happened to 
be away, and I should have felt lonely, the early 
days of my arrival, but for a friend. While un- 
packing I heard a coo-oo, coo-oo, and looking up 
found at the corner of my window, a pair of 
bright, curious eyes observing my movements. 
They belonged to a wine-coloured pigeon, of lib- 
eral dimensions. Without movement, he sat 
watching me place pincushion, comb, hairbrush, 
nail scissors, cold cream, and polisher on the 



8 HERSELF— IRELAND 

dressing-table, but stretched his wings if I got 
too near. When I retired, he folded them close 
to his plump body, and coo-cooed with renewed 
confidence, indicating that he had appreciated my 
tact. After tea, when I returned to my room, it 
was not long before he Rew to the outer ledge to 
eat the crumbs I had brought him. The next 
morning I found a corn chandler, and bought a 
bag of maize. This thoughtful hospitality on my 
part, sealed our fellowship. Very soon he occu- 
pied the centre of the window-sill, and one day 
after a profound examination of me, with a trust- 
ing baritone coo, he proudly promenaded the 
dressing-table, leaving little muddy tracks on the 
toilet-cover. 

"Glory be to God! I'll show him the windy, 
I will that," said my chambermaid, " traipsin' over 
the clane linen, like a Christian, an' lavin' black 
tracks all up and down — and him with heels like 
a jay -bird." 

" No," I said, " please don't show him either 
the window or the door. I want him encouraged 
to come; not to go." 

And I made one other friend. A ten o'clock 
duck. — He lived on the pond in Stephen's Green. 
At the last stroke of the clock, I am sure he looked 
up at my window and quacked, " Go to bed! Go 
to bed!" After a few ten o'clocks, I walked 
over to the Green, found the little lake, and as the 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 9 

ducks swam towards me, I recognised my portly 
friend's quacks. His enunciation was better than 
the others'. He was quicker to discern food, and 
his appetite was very sound. 

I have an affection for ducks. They are more 
benign than chickens, more trustful, and they have 
less idle curiosity. 

Every night I listened at ten o'clock, for that 
penetrating quack, and he never failed me. And 
every morning, during my six weeks' stay, my 
wine-coloured pigeon woke me with his deep- 
throated note. I travelled about Ireland during 
the summer, and returned to Dublin in Sep- 
tember. My chambermaid said: 

" Ye couldn't have belaved how that bird car- 
ried on, whin you went away. He was here the 
whole day, peerin' in the room, an' if I opened the 
door sudden, he'd be sittin' on the dressin'-table, 
lukin' at himself, an' as plain as anny thing, he 
axed me where you were." But he never came 
back during my second visit, and a little wine- 
coloured feather is all that I have of our friendship. 

There are certain cities where one can be 
alone, and others where loneliness is unbearable. 
New York, for instance. There life assumes a 
ruthless and belligerent aspect, intimidating to 
the strongest spirit. London is too vast, and 
grey, sombre, and indifferent, to endure solitari- 
ness. Belfast is uninteresting enough to create 



10 HERSELF— IRELAND 

restlessness. But Washington, where one can 
spend weeks, among the treasures of the Capitol, 
or Florence, where the architecture is of unfor- 
gettable beauty, or Madrid, sitting for- hours be- 
fore the immortal work of the great Masters — 
making them one's own in memory — or New 
Orleans, caressed by the softly perfumed air of 
the South, and surrounded by the past glories of 
old France, or Dublin, which possesses a charm 
peculiar to itself, in all these cities, of a friendly 
size and atmosphere, loneliness is not only pos- 
sible, but even restful and agreeable. 

I like to wander alone, in the streets of a strange 
town, to loiter before the shop -windows, and look 
at old pictures, old silver, old fans, or old china. 
A collector of old jewelry placed a whole heap 
of antiquated rings before me; they included one 
or two specimens of Claddagh marriage rings, and 
engraved in the thin gold circles I found these 
different love phrases: 

" In thee I find content of mind." 
" Let love abide, till death divide." 
" God for me appointed thee." 
" Love fixt on virtue lasteth." 
"My love and I, till death divide." 
Walking along Lower Leeson Street in the 
early morning, I noticed a child, with the bluest 
eyes that eyes can endure, and although he was 
not more than four or five years old, some phase 



<$f. 



a 
z 

« 
^ 



O 

H 

O 






WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 11 

of life seemed already to have made an impres- 
sion upon him. 

" What is that pretty badge you are wearing on 
your innocent breast?" I asked, pointing to a 
round disc of green, white, and yellow. 

He straightened his sturdy little figure, swelled 
out his small chest, and said, " The colours of the 
Irish Republic, Sorr — Mam," he corrected, and 
there was the steady light of battle in his eye, 
which I queUed with a bag of chocolates. 

" Now kiss me good-bye, Sinn Feiner of the 
eyes so blue," I said. " Go to America, and be 
good." And we parted to meet no more. 

One afternoon in Grafton Street, while in a 
shop giving directions about the repairs of a silver 
box, two young ladies came in, stood by my side, 
and asked to see rings. The clerk who served 
me said in an undertone: 

" That is Mrs. Plunkett, the young widow who 
married her husband during the rebellion, just 
before he was shot, and a friend who is constantly 
with her." 

As they looked neither to the right nor to the 
left, it gave me an opportunity of observing them. 
Mrs. Plunkett wore no mourning except a broad 
band of black on her white hat, and on the sleeve 
of her coat. Her dress was of emerald-green 
tweed. Her face was pale, the wide-open blue 
eyes observed what passed before them with quiet 



12 HERSELF— IRELAND 

indifference, and never have I seen a jewel selected 
so quickly. 

" Are the diamonds good? " the dark young girl 
asked. 

The salesman said, " Yes, all these rings are of 
the best quality." 

" I will take this one. Send me the bill," said 
the dark-eyed girl, and with that brief direction, 
these interesting ladies departed. It seemed to me 
a tragedy lurked in the background of that 
sparkling circle. Perhaps it was purchased by 
his fiancee, at the request of one of the Insurrec- 
tionists, before being deported. 

Mrs. Plunkett had expressed no opinion about 
the ring. And I thought of the difference there 
would have been in my own happy land, if two 
American girls had entered Tiffany's on a like 
errand. Tray after tray of rings would have been 
brought forward, dozens of them tried on, and 
flashed in the light with breathless exclamations 
of: 

"Oh, Mary, don't you just love rubies!" 

" My dear, look at this, it's a perfect 
vision! " 

Eventually half-a-dozen rings would have been 
ordered home for " Poppa " to see, and with not a 
care in the world, the lively pair would have flut- 
tered out of the shop, and stepped briskly forth on 
Fifth Avenue. I can scarcely believe that I saw 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 13 

such an important thing as a diamond ring bought 
in two minutes, but then strange things happen in 
Ireland. 

The very first of my serious sight-seeing was to 
view the mail-clad figure of Strongbow the Dane, 
in Christ Church, where in one of the vaults St. 
Patrick said the first Mass in Ireland. The 
ancient warrior has very tender associations for 
me, for as soon as my son, Francis Howard, could 
draw, he pictured Strongbow. How many times 
have I regretted his noble proportions on my best 
notepaper. Sometimes he was surrounded by his 
military monks, the Knights Templar, sometimes 
he was alone, and occasionally he divided honours 
with Rufus and his spider. I paused before the 
beautiful Norman door, and the exquisite interior 
of the Church delighted me, but my coign of 
vantage was the tomb bearing the recumbent 
figure of a Knight in chain armour. By his side 
is a smaller tomb, with a half-length figure of his 
son, whom he slashed in twain for cowardice in 
battle. I suppose that is why there is only half 
a son lying by him. Spartanism is admirable in 
heroes, but not in fathers; the tie of blood should 
temper it with mercy. 

The monument of the nineteenth Earl of 
Kildare, the father of the first Duke of Leinster, 
is quite beautiful, and there are two chapels of 
consideration, one of St. Lorcan, the Abbot of 



14 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Glendalough, the second saint canonised in Rome 
after St. Malachy, and the Lady Chapel, which 
was the original chapel of St. Nicholas. The red 
Cork marble, the green Galway marble, and the 
black Kilkenny marble, have all been used to great 
advantage in the building of the pulpit. These 
various stones, with their warmth of colour, in- 
cluding Irish blue marble, are quite as valuable 
for decoration, as any of the Italian marbles, and 
architects might well make use of them, both in 
England and in America. The crypt is not only in- 
teresting to the antiquary — from various evidence, 
it is proved a Danish built Christian church — 
but the wooden stocks and quaint candlesticks, 
used in the celebration of Mass during the reign of 
James II, the silver gilt Dutch plate, presented 
to the Cathedral by William III are objects which 
would be appreciated by the most casual observer. 
I should like also to see a reproduction of the 
royal palace, built of peeled wands, in which 
Henry II Hved just outside Dublin. It must have 
been of the same character as the picturesque 
cabins, built of wattles, and so poetically appre- 
ciated by Yeats. 

" I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made : 
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey 

bee, 
And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 15 

" And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes 

dropping slow, 
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the 

cricket sings; 
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 
And evening full of the linnet's wings. 

*' I will arise and go now, for always night and day, 
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore ; 
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavement gray, 
I hear it in the deep heart's core." 

Henry II may have had nine bean rows and a 
hive for honey bees, but peace is not for Kings. 
He was obhged to leave his castle of peeled wan,ds 
and return to England. John, his son, who was 
made Lord of Ireland, was never popular in the 
country, what a pity the fine title was allowed to 
lapse! Perhaps one day if Ireland should find 
favour in Royal eyes, a Lord of Ireland may 
reign again in the Emerald Isle. 

My sight-seeing, which in a city of so many in- 
terests can never end, began to be intermittent, 
as friends came and went from the Hotel. The 
Insurrection had been over for some weeks, but 
every one, especially those who had seen it, been 
thrilled and terrified and inconvenienced by it, still 
talked of nothing else. The Government was held 
responsible by some, John Redmond, the Leader 
of the Irish Party, by others; and even his fol- 
lowers, particularly the young men, felt that at the 



16 HERSELF— IRELAND 

beginning of the War, by too great impulsive 
generosity, he had thrown his own great chance 
and that of Ireland to the winds. A young Irish 
gentleman, the son of a Unionist, but himself a 
believer in Home Rule, with no ambition for 
political place, only a burning desire for the wel- 
fare of his country, said to me: 

" John Redmond missed his opportunity at the 
beginning of the AVar. Instead of pledging Ire- 
land to England in a very fine and dramatic 
speech, and offering them Irish soldiers, he should 
have demanded Home Rule in exchange for Irish 
Regiments. He should have demanded Ireland's 
freedom for the lives of her sons. There might 
have been hot controversy in the House of Com- 
mons, but, eventually, he would have got Home 
Rule. England has always understood better 
than any other nation barter and exchange. She 
also understands a gun as well, or better, than 
any other country. Was it Mr. Dooley who told 
Mr. Hennessy that when John Bull was at din- 
ner, the butler interrupted him and said: 

" ' There's a man outside, who wants to see you, 
with a grievance.' 

" * Tell him to go away,' said John Bull, ' I 
don't want to see a man with a grievance.' 

" In a short time the butler returned and said : 

" ' The man with the grievance is back again. 
This time he has got a gun.' 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 17 

" ' Has he? ' said John Bull; ' then show him in, 
and we'll have a talk about it.' 

" As England wanted Ireland to shoulder the 
gun, John Bull should have made him a loyal sub- 
ject by putting Home Rule into operation. 
There are probably, or there were, before the 
slaughter (for Irishmen went to fight when Eng- 
land was short of ammunition, and had only the 
breasts of soldiers as a defence against German 
guns) 170,000 Irishmen in the Army. If we had 
got Home Rule we could have doubled this num- 
ber, and without conscription. Probably Mac- 
Donagh, and the O'Rahilly, and Connolly, and 
other leaders of the uprising, would have died with 
the Victoria Cross on their breasts, fighting for, 
instead of against, England." 

" But surely," I said, " these men if they were 
not madmen, must have known that death was 
inevitable? " 

" They were not mad, they were exalted vision- 
aries and fanatics, burning with the unquench- 
able spirit of nationality. Bloodshed is losing its 
terrors. The papers contained a daily Roll of 
Honour. Irish soldiers arrived from the Front 
wounded, maimed, and dying. Death hovered in 
the air, and became a familiar friend. These men 
resolved to die for Ireland. They thought her 
patience to await events was weakening the Irish 
character. Irish Nationality was being withered, 



18 HERSELF— IRELAND 

like a blight. Parnell said that no Irish member 
was useful to Ireland after he had served two 
years in a British Parliament. The Insurrection- 
ists had lost faith in Irish parliamentarians. Mr. 
Birr el must have heard of the uprising. It was 
openly whispered over Ireland that an insurrec- 
tion was in the air of such dimensions that after 
the War, at the table of peace, Ireland would be 
exalted to consideration by the International 
Council of the World. And though she was 
not mentioned by name, America loomed large 
in the foreground, for the Sinn Fein move- 
ment made a strong appeal to young Irish 
America." 

" And," I said, " Germany must have been 
somewhat involved? " 

" Germany, I am sure, had little to do with the 
actual uprising; it was too small a thing to engage 
her attention — and too hopeless, but undeniably 
there was a hidden hand somewhere. England 
has been, and is. Master of the Seas. In spite of 
her submarine warfare, Germany has a hungry 
realisation of this fact. Possibly she furnished a 
certain amount of arms and ammunition. She 
also furnished arms and ammunition to Ulster, 
for which she has never been paid, — the war 
interfered with that." 

"What a pity," I said, "the very varied in- 
terests of Ireland are not fused together. If 



WHY I WENT TO IRELAND 19 

Cork and Belfast were united, couldn't The 
Irish Question be settled at once and for 
ever? " 

" Perhaps, but you are opening up a wide field 
now. I must send you to Belfast, to talk with my 
brother-in-law. He is a Resident Magistrate 
there, a very broad-minded and intellectual man; 
my sister will be delighted to have you pay her a 
visit." 

" Can you invite me, a stranger, to your sis- 
ter's house? " I said, smihngly. 

"Certainly I can," he said, cordially; "and 
to half-a-dozen other houses in Ireland. To my 
mother's in County Cork, and my brother's in 
Queenstown, and a cousin's in Kerry. You must 
make them all visits.'* 

This hospitality was as whole-hearted as that of 
the South, although less compelhng. A story is 
told of a man riding through my own State, 
Texas, in the early days, who looked up, and saw 
a negro seated on a fence tremblingly pointing a 
rifle at him. 

" Damn you, put that down, it will go off in a 
minute — what the hell are you trying to shoot 
me for? " 

" I ain't gwine to shoot you. Sir, if you'll only 
do what my ole Massa axes you to do," said the 
negro. 

" What the devil does he want me to do? " said 



20 HERSELF— IRELAND 

the man. "It must be something inhuman if it 
has to be done at the muzzle of a gun." 

" No it ain't. Sir — ole Massa's mighty lone- 
some, livin' on dis big ranch by hisself, an' he says 
to me dis morning, ' Jim, go down to de road, 
an' bring me a visitor. Ef you don't I'll blow 
out yo' brains an' mine.' I bin sittin' here some 
time, an' I seen two other men go by, but I 
knowed dey wouldn't er suited ole Massa. He 
might er blowed out dur brains, along wid mine 
and his'en. But you an' ole Massa will git along 
togedder. I knowed you was a gentleman de min- 
ute I heard you cuss." 

The man threw himself off his horse, walked 
with the negro to the house, and said at the end 
of his enforced visit he never spent a pleasanter 
fortnight. 



CHAPTER II 

THE REBELLION OF 1916 

God Save Ireland and the People in it 

(Old Gaelic Proverb) 

I MADE no haste to see the ruins of Sackville 
Street; the great plate windows of the Shelbourne, 
decorated with holes, from which zigzag lines 
sprang like violent spiders' webs, were reminder 
enough of Dublin's tragic week. And from those 
who were eye-witnesses I could visualise all that 
had happened. A journalist describing his ex- 
periences said to me: 

" On Easter Monday, I was writing my daily 
column, when I heard the tramp, tramp of march- 
ing men. It was no unusual sound, but the 
rhythm of those steady feet somehow thrilled me. 
I dropped my pen. Ran to the window. Threw 
it up. Heard a shot. Saw a policeman fall. A 
priest hurried to his side. Sharp firing began, and 
though dazed I reaHsed it was an attack on Dub- 
lin Castle. A few minutes later the premises of 
the Evening Mail were seized, and I was mentally 
preparing a column more vital than the one I 
had been forced to abandon. As they say in the 

Vernacular of your country, there was not only 

21 



22 HERSELF— IRELAND 

a * story ' opening before me, but a living drama, 
unleavened by comedy, and submerged in blood, 
and tears, and death." 

" Yes," I said, " ' The filling up of graves, the 
wringing of drenched hands,' — and then? " 

" The Insurrectionists held our office all the 
afternoon, and Monday night the battle still 
raged. The Volunteers fought with red-hot cour- 
age, desperately, as men fight who put an extrava- 
gant resolve to the test. The bullets swarmed like 
deadly gnats; from Cork Hill they formed a zone 
in which nothing could live. Men in khaki tried 
in vain to storm the fortress. The Insurgents 
fired with unerring aim, and the soldiers fell dead 
or wounded in groups of three or four, until the 
end of the siege, when the final assault made the 
Sinn Feiners lay down their arms. 

" Tuesday, fighting was going on all day, snipers 
firing from the houses in the neighbourhood of 
Cork Hill, and the soldiers dared death in trying 
to find them. Men going from house to house 
duty were almost certain to be killed or wounded. 
I saw two brave Colonials, a captain and his 
corporal, hunting for rebels, the latter with an 
amateur bandage about his jaw, and the former 
with an awkward bandage round his hand. Al- 
though both should have been in hospital, they 
were clearing the streets, firing at windows and 
roofs, and being fired at in return. Thursday, I 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 23 

saw them again, and I watched the captain until he 
was wounded in the leg, but even then he con- 
tinued on duty, and if he had been in France fight- 
ing against the Germans, instead of in Dublin 
fighting against the Irish — very probably he was 
himself of Irish extraction — undoubtedly he would 
have won the Victoria Cross." 

" Tell me how he deserved it? " I asked. 

" On Friday he was at the Four Courts ; it was 
toward the end, and both sides were fighting dog- 
gedly. In some of the smaller streets barricades 
had been erected by the Sinn Feiners on the one 
side and the regular troops on the other. The 
Sinn Feiners were firing continuously, and prov- 
ing what good marksmen they were. A number 
of wounded soldiers had already been carried off, 
when the Colonial captain filled two bags with 
bombs, slung them across his shoulders, leaped 
over his own barricade, made for the barricade 
of the enemy, threw bombs to the right and to 
the left, demohshed the defence, routed and 
wounded the snipers lying behind it, but fell, shot 
through the heart himself." 

" A gallant man," I said, " a very gallant 
soldier of the King, indeed he deserved the Vic- 
toria Cross. And what of the rebels, did you 
single out any one man among them? " 

" Yes, there was a tall young giant from the 
South or West, he seemed to bear a charmed life, 



24 HERSELF— IRELAND 

for again and again, the 5th DubHn Fusihers fired 
at him, a bullet winged his sleeve, another went 
through the top of his green hat and toppled it to 
the ground; he let it lie, tossed back his red mane, 
and with a steady aim sent a bullet through a sol- 
dier's body. After that, a perfect volley fell 
around him, but he still remained unhurt; his 
fingers moved like lightning, he fired with the 
quickness of a Gatling gun, and he must have 
wounded any number of men." 

"Was he killed?" 

" Not while I watched him. Sometimes when he 
fired he yelled out, ' God save the Irish Repub- 
lic!' He was a spectacular rascal." 

" The Irish Republic," I said, " it must have 
given even your loyal heart a thrill." 

" It did nothing of the kind," said my expo- 
nent. " I am not a believer in Republics, even in 
yours, and we don't want to be governed in Ire- 
land by madmen." 

" You did not contemplate that danger too 
long," I said, " the leaders were all shot without 
delay. And four of them — who, by the way, were 
not leaders — were wrongly condemned by the 
order of one of your own madmen. A man who 
for your credit, you have now put in a lunatic 
asylum." 

" In a crisis," said my exponent, " some 
wretched mistakes must occur." 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 25 

*' Not necessarilj^" I said. " The wisest law- 
yers, judges, supreme judges, and great jurists 
whom I have known, men with broad and judicial 
minds, all argue that Court Martial should be 
abolished, more especially where private citizens 
are concerned. The hanging of Mrs. Surrat, 
after a trial by Court Martial, for complicity in 
the assassination of President Lincoln, is now 
considered a blot upon the administration of 
American justice. The military mind is not usu- 
ally analytic, and it often works slowly. Mili- 
tary legs and arms are quick, but in a crisis it is 
more necessary for the mind to work with despatch 
than the body. But I am interrupting you ; please 
go on with your history of the rebellion." 

" On Wednesday I got as far as Ballsbridge, 
and met the troops who had arrived at Kingstown, 
and were then nearing their headquarters in the 
Show grounds of Ballsbridge. They were dying 
of thirst, and boys, women, and children ran 
for water, bringing it back in cups, jugs, and 
buckets, which the men drank. And well they 
did, for early in the afternoon the battle began. 
At first the populace following the soldiers had 
no reahsation of danger. Even when firing com- 
menced they were not alarmed; it was only when 
the Sinn Feiners answered and here and there a 
soldier fell, that they took alarm and ran pell 
mell back to the houses." 



26 HERSELF— IRELAND 

"And on Thursday?" 

" After Wednesday I confined my movements 
to Dublin. I was trying to find a young lieu- 
tenant who had been missing since Monday. A 
boy had seen him in the neighbourhood of the 
Post Ofiice on that day, and it seemed more than 
probable that he had been killed; as a matter of 
fact, he was a prisoner in the General Post 
Office. While buying stamps, he heard a voice 
outside shouting, 'Charge! Charge!' A crowd 
of Insurgents rushed in, a Volunteer presented a 
bayonet to his breast. He was taken prisoner, 
bound with wires, and placed in the telephone box, 
which almost immediately became a place of dan- 
ger, for as soon as the employees were marched 
out, the Lancers fired from outside, and bullets 
whizzed through the box. After three hours, by 
the O'Rahilly's orders, he was taken to the top 
floor and commanded to watch the safe. On 
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday he per- 
formed this duty in the midst of constant firing. 
On Friday the roof began to blaze, and he and 
other prisoners crawled under a table when they 
saw it was about to topple on them. In the 
evening they were taken downstairs to the base- 
ment below the building, but their danger only 
increased, as it was a repository for bombs with 
fuses set, for dynamite, gelignite, cordite, and 
guncotton. Seeing the menace of a horrible 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 27 

death, they shouted and a lieutenant of the In- 
surgents found them and said, * It's all right, 
follow me, boys,' and they did with remarkable 
celerity. He took them through the burning 
building to the yard at the back. A short time 
afterwards they were led to Moore Lane and told, 
at the point of the pistol, to cut and run. They 
were off like hares, and successfully passed a back 
street where troops were firing a machine-gun, 
only to get in an alley where a big gun was spat- 
tering out bullets like rain. They escaped that 
danger by climbing over a parapet, found them- 
selves in a courtyard, and crawled down the cellar 
of a house which had been gutted by fire. There 
they spent the night and the next day, a machine- 
gun being constantly busy in the vicinity. 
Towards evening things got so hot for them they 
crawled out of the cellar into a van which had 
been left in the yard. At half -past six o'clock 
they were discovered by a corporal who was on the 
lookout for rebels. They had then been without 
food or drink for twenty-four hours. My friend 
had received a shot in his leg, and I found him 
in a hospital, where he had been before, recover- 
ing from other wounds, which, as a gallant Irish 
soldier, he had received at the Front. I also 
saw that broad and beautiful thoroughfare, Sack- 
ville Street, later in red flames, completely demol- 
ished by fire; so you will not be surprised that I 



28 HERSELF— IRELAND 

consider the Sinn Feiners, who brought all this 
ruin and destruction upon our city, as rebels who 
only got what they deserved in summary punish- 
ment." 

" And what about the looting? " I asked. 

He smiled. " There Irish comedy asserted it- 
self. The jewellers' shops containing valuables, 
diamonds and pearls, silver and gold, were left 
intact. Smart hats and frocks intimidated the 
poor, but sweets, and fruits, and shoes were more 
popular loot. There was no organisation for the 
appropriation of property; what was taken was 
rather like a comic scene, staged for the amuse- 
ment of the public." 

Then I asked a friend who could give me a little 
history of the Volunteers. And he said, " Colonel 
Moore knows more of that movement than any 
man in Ireland." 

" I am told," I said, when I met him, " that the 
initial idea and the organisation of the Irish 
National Volunteers were due to you. Will you 
tell me how it came about ? " 

" Shall I begin at the beginning? " 

" By all means, as an introduction is necessary 
to illumine my ignorance." 

" Well, there was the Gaelic movement, headed 
by Dr. Douglas Hyde, which aimed at the revival 
of a culture of National literature, music, dances. 




./: 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 29 

and language. Next in importance came Sir 
Horace Plunkett's organisation of Irish Agricul- 
ture and the Industrial Development Association. 
Sinn Fein was very sympathetic towards all these 
movements, which received little encouragement 
from the Parliamentarians ; but somehow it gradu- 
ally degenerated from being pro-Irish to anti- 
Enghsh. It would be an error to class all, or 
even a majority, of the people who described 
themselves as believers in the Sinn Fein policy, 
as believers in revolution, or as sympathetic to 
rebellion. Many Sinn Feiners believed that by a 
cultured propaganda and economic organisation 
the Ireland they wished to create would come into 
being without any appeal to arms. They un- 
doubtedly hoped for Self-Government, but many 
people who would before the war have called 
themselves Sinn Feiners are now in the English 
Army and even hold Commissions. In fact, the 
Sinn Fein movement in its widest sense ranged 
from believers in agricultural organisation and 
voluntary co-operation, like Sir Horace Plunkett 
and Sir Nugent Everard, and propagandists of 
the native culture and language like Dr. Hyde and 
Professor MacNeill, to those who were inclining 
to revolution, and wished to achieve by direct 
action in politics what voluntary organisation was 
doing in agriculture and the Gaehc movement was 
doing for the Irish language. 



30 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" After the last Fenian rising for fifty years 
there had been no attempt at an armed revolu- 
tion; the possibility of it had disappeared out of 
the minds of nearly all Irishmen, even the most 
extreme; they had trusted to the exertions of their 
representatives in Parliament, and in this way 
had gradually gained much of the liberty for 
which they had formerly shed their blood. They 
seemed to be on the point of gaining the last and 
greatest boon, the right to govern their own coun- 
try. Home Rule was in sight, when a new theory 
was developed by their opponents. Sir Edward 
Carson and the Orangemen stated that votes were 
of no account; and majorities not worth talking 
about. They appealed to force, appointed a Pro- 
visional Government, and proceeded to arm and 
organise an army to intimidate the Government 
of the country. Parliament was openly flouted, 
and the Orange watchword was, * Ulster will 
fight.' " 

" How well," I said, " I remember that slogan, 
' Ulster will fight.' The Daily Mail had its back 
page filled with photographs of soldiers seven 
feet high at attention, with Sir Edward Carson 
in a semi-demi military costume inspecting them, 
while Arnold White stood by patriotically wear- 
ing the cap of a sailor, and representing 'the 
Queen's Navee.' Why, the whole lot of them 
were perfect pets, only waiting to fight, and so 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 31 

anxious were they to do it that the admiring pubhc 
did not realise there was nobody to fight." 

" Quite so," said Colonel Moore, with a smile; 
" nevertheless the leaders of one of the great 
English parties upheld them, and Ministers con- 
doned their acts; Judges, Peers, Bishops, Clergy- 
men, society women lauded them as heroes and 
patriots, and even in England Volunteers were 
enrolled to fight against Parliament under the 
Orange flag. Race hatred and religious bigotry 
were excited to the utmost to bring about Civil 
War. 

" Mr. Bonar Law, at Dublin, 28th November, 
1913, said: 

" ' I have said on behalf of the party that if 
the Government attempt to coerce Ulster before 
they have received the sanction of the electors, 
Ulster will do well to resist them and we 'will 
support resistance to the end. I wonder whether 
you have tried to picture in your own minds what 
Civil War means . . . it is a prospect from 
which I shrink in horror, and for which I wish 
to avoid if I can any responsibility; but really we 
must try to think what the effect of bloodshed and 
Civil War would be on our Parliamentary insti- 
tutions, on the Army, on the Empire as a whole. 
It would not mean anarchy, it would mean liter- 
ally red ruin and the breaking up of law. It 
would produce results from which our country 



32 HERSELF— IRELAND 

would not recover in the lifetime of any one of 
those whom I am addressing.' 

" Under such circumstances Irish Nationalists 
would have been unworthy of freedom if they 
had not accepted the challenge flung so insultingly 
in their faces. 

" In October, 1913, a meeting was held in Dub- 
lin for the purpose of forming a Volunteer force 
— so you see the germ of the idea was not mine — 
the object of which was stated to be, * to defend 
the rights and liberties of all Irishmen irrespective 
of creed or class or politics.' But the underlying 
idea in the minds of all was to support Parlia- 
ment against the illegal threats of the Orange 
Party." 

" And then what happened? " 

" I joined the movement at its birth, and was 
scoffed at by my Unionist friends in Ireland and 
England, who prophesied that I could not raise a 
hundred men in Ireland to defend Home Rule. 
* No one wants it,' they said, ' now that the 
peasants have got the land.' " 

" I don't know what Unionists would do for an 
argument without peasants and the land." 

" I went to Mayo, which is my own country, 
and began raising Volunteer Corps in various 
towns; in this way I was brought in touch with 
men of all classes, creeds, and opinions; and 
when I put forward the object of the movement, 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 33 

the one that produced the most intense enthusiasm 
was the chance of reconcihng hostile sections." 

"How splendid," I said; "it really seemed the 
beginning of the settlement of The Irish Ques- 
tion." 

" I explained that we were not attacking land- 
lords or tenants, Protestants or Cathohcs, and 
that we looked upon Orangemen as our fellow- 
countrymen. We intended neither to oppress 
them, nor to force them, where they were in a 
majority, to accept a Government against their 
inclinations; but, on the other hand, we would 
defend our own rights and not suffer ourselves 
to be oppressed. We wanted Land Leaguers, 
Hibernians, Sinn Feiners, and loyal Unionists 
to drill side by side, not giving up their own 
opinions or associations but coming together as 
Volunteers. These were the tenets of the Irish 
Volunteers when they were inaugurated, and 
they captured the country in a few months. To 
such an extreme was this toleration carried that 
in Dublin and Galway cheers were given for the 
Ulster Volunteers as brother Irishmen. Men of 
the most intensely opposite sections became 
friends; I was met one day outside a meeting by 
the heads of two hostile leagues walking arm in 
arm; they told me they had not spoken for years 
but were going to drill together." 

" How proud you must have been," I said. 



34 HERSELF— IRELAND 

"All this was not done without difficulty; it 
was rumoured that the Parliamentary Party was 
opposed to our movement, but in the main I car- 
ried my way in the West, and the same doctrine 
was preached in every province. 

" When I was satisfied about the soundness of 
my views, and the practical possibility of our 
plans, I went to Dublin and joined the Pro- 
visional Committee. On my first entrance I found 
about twenty-five members present; nearly all of 
them were young men. None of them knew any- 
thing of military affairs or the ' division of bat- 
tle more than a spinster,' but they had hired halls 
for drilling and obtained the free services of 
excellent sergeants to instruct them. Except Mr. 
John MacNeill and Mr. Pearce and Mr. Mac- 
Donagh, I had never seen or heard of any of 
them before, and it took two or three days to size 
them up and separate the groups. There were 
about two extremists and four or five young boys 
under their domination; these latter were mild 
and quiet and by no means unreasonable. Five 
or six Sinn Feiners were in a distinct group; they 
might be described as extreme Home Rulers at 
this time; they did not approve of the methods 
of the Parliamentary party, but they were not 
revolutionists; they had a very cloudy idea how 
they were going to attain their ends, but in the 
main they disliked Mr. Redmond and the Parlia- 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 35 

mentary party which they distrusted; they fol- 
lowed the opinions of Mr. Griffith, the Editor 
of the Sinn Fein newspaper. There were a few 
like MacNeill, Pearce, MacDonagh, Plunkett, and 
the O'Rahilly, who belonged to no special political 
party; they were idealists. The remainder of the 
Committee were moderate men inclined to follow 
the Parliamentary party. All these opinions were 
kept strictly in the background; no politics of 
any sort were discussed, and the shades of opinion 
would have been difficult to find out except by 
private conversation. It will be interesting to note 
how some of the Sinn Fein party, and some of the 
Idealists gradually became extremists and merged 
with the Fenians. The Volunteers themselves 
were on strictly non-party lines; it was their boast 
that they were a national, not a political body, 
and this was not a great exaggeration." 
" What sort of men were the leaders? " 
" They were men of the highest character, pub- 
lic and private, whose whole lives from childhood 
had been permeated with thoughts not of their, 
own selfish interests, but of the interests of their 
country. They were intimately acquainted with 
its history, its literature, its language and its an- 
tiquities, and had the most romantic views regard- 
ing its future. Some of them, like MacNeill, 
were scholars and Professors, whose opinions are 
as much studied and respected by students abroad 



36 HERSELF— IRELAND 

as at home; others, like MacDonagh, were poets 
with considerable gifts. Only yesterday I was 
charmed by a beautiful poem he had translated 
from the Gaelic. Pearce was a man of such 
tender sympathies that he would not shoot nor 
fish because he could not bear to give pain; his 
school garden full of fruit was not shut off from 
the boys; he trusted to their honour not to steal, 
and when the temptation of rosy apples proved 
too great, he could not bring himself to slap the 
little culprits. All were men who would have been 
the choicest and the finest blossom of any Nation 
in the world, and whose one absorbing passion 
was to lay down their lives in order that their 
country might be advanced even one step in pros- 
perity and enlightenment. If they had been born 
in Canada or Australia they would have been 
great citizens; it is certain they would have been 
foremost in some wild Anzac charge, and might 
have died by Turkish bullets instead of against a 
Barrack wall in Dublin." 

" Yes ; a different environment and such men 
are heroes. Then what happened?" 

" We were then advanced as far as a com- 
mittee." 

" A very dangerous stage in Ireland," I said. 

" From the first I had seen that a large body 
of twenty-five members of different views, very 
indiscriminately chosen, and with no technical 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 37 

knowledge, could not govern the Volunteers. I 
pressed this point on Mr. MacNeill and those 
who were the most intelligent, and it was agreed 
amongst a few that this idea of a small committee 
should be developed. I considered that a com- 
mittee of three would be best; but it was argued 
that there were not in the committee three men 
sufficiently known and trusted in Ireland to 
undertake the job, and that five would be neces- 
sary." 

" The smaller the committee the better," I 
said. 

" And I was deputed to see Mr. Redmond on 
the subject. The party had not hitherto ap- 
proved an organisation that might develop on 
wrong lines, but they now agreed to join with 
a committee of nine as a governing body. 

" Unfortunately, there was a slight disagree- 
ment as to its composition, and the dispute ended 
by Mr. Redmond appointing twenty-five new 
members as an addition to the old Committee; a 
thoroughly bad arrangement which made a split 
inevitable." 

" Why didn't you, knowing this," I said, " state 
your views quite frankly to Mr. Redmond? " 

" At the moment I had gone off to inspect and 
teach Volunteers in the West. I was in Limerick 
when I heard that a dispute had arisen. I re- 
turned to Dublin, but it had taken so aggravated 



38 HERSELF— IRELAND 

a form that intervention had then become im- 
possible." 

" It shouldn't have been," I said. " You had 
got 170,000 men together in Ireland. It was your 
job. You should have been firm over the twenty- 
five members of the committee when you didn't 
believe in them." 

" Perhaps so," he said; " but Mr. Redmond had 
written, ' Will you accept my terms or will you 
not? If you will not I will start a new organisa- 
tion of my own.' That meant a split in every 
town and village in Ireland. My hands were tied, 
but nevertheless the Volunteers grew rapidly in 
numbers and organisation; Mayo reckoned 10,000; 
Galway not much less; Derry City over 2,000 
trained men, so that we could count in the spring 
about 170,000 men in Ireland. I had been ap- 
pointed Inspector General from the beginning, and 
now Colonel Cotter, late R.E., joined my office 
as Chief of the Staff. We organised the scat- 
tered Corps into Companies, Battalions, and Bri- 
gades, and the nucleus of an army began to make 
its appearance. Public opinion in England was 
impressed, and the Orangemen began to hesitate 
as to their conduct. In the beginning they 
thought — wrongly I believe — that they had 
squared the Army. It is natural for soldiers to 
obey, they have acquired the habit, and although 
Carson's friends and the loyal pretty ladies of 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 39 

his acquaintance had asked a few officers not to 
fight against Ulster, and in a moment of expan- 
siveness they had said they would not, still when 
the moment came officers and soldiers ahke would 
have fallen into hne and obeyed orders; but in 
the beginning Ulster men calculated on a walk- 
over. Now it seemed different; the Government 
was reinforced, and stiffened its attitude to the 
Orangemen." 

" And the whole of Ireland was becoming an 
army of drilled militiamen?" 

" Yes," said Colonel Moore; " and events of im- 
portance were developing in England. War 
threatened with Germany, and it was evident some 
sort of settlement, permanent or temporary, re- 
garding Ireland must be arranged between parties. 
At this moment the Irish Volunteers rose to the 
height of their popularity, not only among those 
who usually supported the National cause, but 
among the Southern Unionists. The most promi- 
nent Unionists in Ireland offered their services, 
and I was glad to seize the opportunity to bring 
them into our movement, as a sign that we were 
not narrow or bigoted in our views. Men hke 
Lord Powerscourt, Lord Fingal, Marquis of 
Conyngham, Captain Bryan Cooper, Lord Arran, 
and numberless others, patriotically putting aside 
old antagonisms, came to our help and became 
officers of the Irish Volunteers. We had already 



40 HERSELF— IRELAND 

far surpassed the Ulster Volunteers in numbers, 
and now also we were ahead of them in the rank 
and position of our officers. We had succeeded in 
welding together all parties in at least three out 
of four southern provinces, and we had achieved 
the result without money or patronage, but merely 
by the patriotism of our people, the moderation of 
our words, and the wisdom of our actions. It is 
a result of which I at least am proud." 

" And with reason," I said. " You had achieved 
the impossible." 

Colonel Moore sighed. " War was declared 
early in August, and it seemed impossible to carry 
on a foreign war with rebellion threatening at 
home in Ulster. On the National side Mr. 
Redmond relieved the situation by making a 
public and unconditional offer of the services 
of the Volunteers for the defence of the 
country. 

" As usual, the Government hesitated what 
course to pursue, and tried to do nothing. Day 
after day speculation was keener and controversy 
gr^w louder as to the signing of the Home Rule 
Bill. I was travelling all over the country re- 
viewing Volunteers, and everywhere I found the 
anxiety growing more intense. It was freely 
stated that Carson had made his bargain, and that 
Redmond had shown his cards, and was being 
cheated by the Government." 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 41 

" In this instance the delay of the Government 
proved not only dangerous but fatal." 

" Yes," said Colonel Moore; " the Sinn Feiners 
took full advantage of these fears, and preached 
the doctrine of ' perfide Albion.' Lord Kitchener 
sent over an officer to raise an Irish Division, and 
the inclination of many people was to wait until 
the Government declared itself; the Sinn Feiners 
said, ' The Enghsh are humbugging us ; they want 
our recruits, and when they have them safely 
bagged, they will snap their fingers at us.' It 
could not be denied that their history was true, and 
their forebodings had every appearance of being 
true also. Week after week passed by with no 
sign, only the call for more recruits. The time was 
agonising and nerves began to give way." 

" With disunion and division in view that was 
inevitable." 

" I am confident that the weeks elapsing be- 
tween the passing of the Bill and its signature 
by the King, coupled with the demand for re- 
cruits, estranged the people of Ireland as much 
as the Bill itself had conciliated them. When 
at last the Bill was signed the enthusiasm was 
gone; and the fact that it was not to be put in 
force until after the War, with the threat of an 
undefined amending bill, left the uncertainty as 
great as ever. Nobody believed in it. 

" Nothing but the enormous influence of Mr. 



42 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Redmond and the leaders of the Irish party pre- 
vented a universal and determined agitation 
against recruiting; whereas, if the Home Rule 
Bill which had passed three times through the 
House of Commons, had been loyally adopted by 
England, there would have been such enthusiasm 
for the Empire that any number of recruits would 
have come in, and Sinn Fein would have become 
less influential than ever." 

" But the Party leaders continued to assist in 
recruiting, didn't they? " 

" Some of them did. Mr. Redmond made a 
speech to the Volunteers at Woodenbridge in 
favour of recruiting; the Sinn Feiners admitted 
at this time that they could not complain of his 
advising Irishmen to enlist, but they put forward 
the theory that the Volunteers had offered to de- 
fend the shores of Ireland, and that men who had 
made certain sacrifices should not be specially 
selected for opprobrium because they did not go 
further; moreover, men were on parade and could 
not express their opinions; it was not fair to 
lecture them in this position. But the real bit- 
terness was because the Bill was not signed and 
it was believed that it would be torn up as soon 
as the recruits had been collected." 

" And so England again lost the confidence of 
Ireland." 

" I was at this time sitting regularly on the 




"Kit" (French Pochette) or Dancing Master's 
Fiddle 

}W I'errv, of I)ii!)lin. Late Eigliteciitli Century 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 43 

provisional Committee and was in almost daily 
private conversation with the men who have since 
been executed for rebellion. With the possible 
exception of one or two of the extremists, I do 
not believe even now, looking back with the experi- 
ence of late events, there was a man who thought 
of rebellion, though some may have had indefinite 
national aspirations in the far future. They were 
all Home Rulers, angry at being cheated out of 
their rights; many of them distrustful of Mr. 
Redmond, and all of them by this time intensely 
distrustful of English promises. Distrust of Eng- 
lish good faith is the basis of Irish disloyalty." 

" What a wonderfully descriptive phrase, * Dis- 
trust of English good faith, is the basis of Irish 
disloyalty.' " 

" Before the war began, like most other people, 
I foresaw the difficulties that were bound to arise 
owing to the existence of two hostile armed parties 
in Ireland. I knew that the Government was 
afraid to suppress the Carson army, and there- 
fore could not suppress the Volunteers. The only 
solution I could find for the entanglement was 
for the Government to extend the Territorial Act 
to Ireland, into which men of both parties might 
enlist. Orangemen would have found it difficult 
to refuse on account of their loyal professions, 
and many of the Irish Volunteers would do the 
same. I believe now that was the proper solu- 



44 HERSELF— IRELAND 

tion, and that it was quite feasible; serving to- 
gether in the same regiments, party antagonisms 
would have softened. An Orange rebellion would 
then have been impossible, and the main object of 
the Volunteers would have been effected. 

"But time was not available; the war clouds 
had already risen, and men's minds were wander- 
ing from Ireland and the Volunteers of either 
party to greater issues. I saw the necessity of 
taking another hne, and aided by Sir Horace 
Plunkett, a man always ready to help at a diffi- 
cult moment, for whom I have the highest appre- 
ciation, I got in touch with the Commander-in- 
Chief in Ireland. At his invitation I went to see 
him, in company with Capt. Hon. FitzRoy 
Hemphill, and expressed my desire to find some 
scheme for the co-operation of the Volunteers in 
the defence of Ireland. 

" An officer of his Staff proposed a scheme by 
which all the Volunteers in Ireland, Unionist and 
National, should receive Military Training; he 
calculated that when the troops were removed 
there would be room for 20,000 men at one time 
in barracks, and these should, after a two months' 
training, be passed on to the standing camps ; their 
places in barracks being taken by a new levee of 
20,000 Volunteers; after the camp training they 
would be ready to take their place on the coast 
defences; passing after their tour of duty to their 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 45 

own homes. In this way by circulating new levees 
through the barracks and camps the whole force 
would be trained. Working side by side in this 
way, I hoped the troubles and hatreds between the 
different parties in Ireland would have gradually 
abated, and while the last obstacle to National 
Self- Government would be overcome, our former 
quarrels would have ended in advantage to the 
Empire. The Volunteers were to be under their 
own officers and their own organisation, and we 
bargained that the arms should belong to them 
after the War." 

" If this had been done," I said, " in all prob- 
abihty the rebellion would have been prevented." 

" At any rate," he said, " the most prominent 
members of the Provisional Committee, men even 
outside the moderate section, agreed to these pro- 
posals. Later on Mr. Redmond and the leaders of 
the Irish Party also accepted them, but Lord 
Kitchener refused even to discuss the incorpora- 
tion of the Volunteers, and the proposal was 
abandoned." 

" Then it was Lord Kitchener," I said, " who 
signed the death knell of your plans." 

" I want to lay stress on the fact that the lead- 
ers of the Irish Volunteers, and that members 
connected with the late rebellion, were wilhng to 
join in the defence of Ireland, but were refused by 
the Government." 



46 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" What a melancholy indictment," I said. 

" Nothing could have been more disastrous than 
the treatment meted out to the Volunteers; every 
advance we made was rejected with contempt." 

" And this after all their sacrifices to become 
soldiers ! " 

" The feature that surprised me most in the 
Volunteer movement, was the strong desire of the 
men to become soldiers, real disciplined soldiers, 
not mere make-believe soldiers. Any officer or 
soldier of the Regular Army, any man, that is, 
who understood the trade, obtained their alle- 
giance. No talker or writer could compete with 
a soldier for leadership; in fact, there was a great 
distrust of oratory. There would have been no 
difficulty in training practically the whole male 
population of the country if the superior authori- 
ties had been intelligent, or had listened to the 
advice of the mihtary and civil authorities in Ire- 
land. But the opportunity was allowed to pass, 
and the military ardour was allowed to be diverted 
into other channels. I believe every one in Ire- 
land has recommended it, military and civil, except 
perhaps the Orangemen." 

" It is not surprising," I said, " to learn that 
every Irishman is a soldier in embryo, for the bit- 
terest enemy of the Irish has never called them 
cowards." 

" Meanwhile the anger of the Volunteers against 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 47 

the Government and the English nation for put- 
ting off Home Rule became more intense, until a 
split occurred in the Committee between the ex- 
tremists and the Redmondites; I wrote advising 
the Volunteers to follow Mr. Redmond, and it was 
calculated that about 160,000 followed us, and 
about 10,000 followed the Sinn Feiners, many 
left the ranks disgusted, and never returned again. 
Then came a series of the most stupid mistakes, 
every one of which increased the strength of the 
Sinn Fein section. Under the Defence of the 
Realm Act men were deported and imprisoned 
without even a crime being alleged against them, 
but merely on the information of a policeman and 
the warrant of the authorities; the advice was 
often prejudiced or ignorant. Newspapers were 
suppressed, and allowed to reappear again under 
a different name with worse articles. 

" There was an occurrence shortly before the 
war which undoubtedly caused great anger in 
Ireland, and which certainly was one of the main 
causes for the line taken by a prominent man who 
is now accused of extreme courses. All the com- 
merce of Ireland passes through Great Britain, 
and a toll for transport is levied on all goods. 
Before 1782 this commercial blockade was carried 
out by law, and was the occasion of the demand 
successfully made by Grattan and the Volunteers 
for free trade for Ireland. Since then it is be- 



48 HERSELF— IRELAND 

lieved that the same effect has been produced by 
the secret but no less powerful combination of 
English merchants." 

" And what," I said, " about Queenstown? " 
" There again," said Colonel Moore, " the Cun- 
ard steamers were built by a loan of Government 
money, and were bound by contract to call for 
mails at Queenstown, but suddenly permission was 
asked to leave out this port and proceed directly 
to England; this breach of contract was per- 
mitted by the Postmaster General to the great 
detriment of Queenstown and Ireland, which, as 
the result of the intrigue, was again cut off from 
intercourse with foreign nations, except through 
England. To remedy this, communications were 
begun with the Hamburg- American Line, and 
arrangements were made for a regular service 
from Queenstown. Agents were named and pas- 
sages taken, when suddenly the sailings were 
cancelled without any reason being alleged. It 
was generally believed that this was contrived by 
the Foreign Office, jealous of any foreign inter- 
course with Ireland. Whether this were so I will 
not argue; but it certainly had that appearance, 
and created a very bad feeling in Ireland. 

" But I think the first event that roused real 
bitterness among the Dublin Volunteers and re- 
sounded all over Ireland, was the action of cer- 
tain police officials in regard to the landing of 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 49 

rifles at Howth. The Arms Act was repealed, and 
the Ulster Provisional Government took advan- 
tage of this state of affairs to arm the Ulster 
Volunteers. No steps were taken to prevent this, 
although it was admittedly for a disloyal purpose, 
until the Irish Volunteers were founded and be- 
came numerous. Then an order — believed to be a 
partisan stroke against the Nationalists — ^which has 
since proved to be illegal, was issued, preventing 
the introduction of arms into Ireland. 

" In spite of this a ship was chartered, and with 
the connivance of some sympathetic officials, and 
the overbearing of others the rifles were landed at 
Larne, and the Ulster Volunteers paraded with 
them through the streets of Belfast, openly and 
unrebuked. A little later the Irish Volunteers 
followed suit and landed their cargo at Howth. 
Immediately news of this was received a large 
body of police and soldiers was assembled and 
ordered to take the rifles by force from the men's 
hands in the streets. In attempting to do this 
several men were batoned, others bayoneted, and a 
great disturbance was created in Dublin. A little 
later in the day some civilians, men and women, 
were shot by the soldiers during further dis- 
turbances. 

These unequal proceedings caused a very hostile 
feeling in Ireland; so far from weakening the 
Irish Volunteers their numbers were nearly 



50 HERSELF— IRELAND 

doubled in the next week, but an anti-English 
feeling, and a feeling against the Army was pro- 
voked just before the war. The extremists became 
more extreme, and many moderates were attracted 
to that party." 

" Then it was not surprising that some people 
opposed or discountenanced recruiting." 

" No. The Irish are a jealous people and 
resent uneven treatment more almost than harsh 
usage. The question was asked then as it is 
to-day in every house in Ireland: What would 
have happened if the Home Rule Act had been 
enforced instead of postponed, and the Covenant- 
ers had revolted as they had sworn? Would Sir 
E. Carson, Mr. Bonar Law, and those rich and 
respected Ulster magnates who formed the Ulster 
Provisional Government have been shot by order 
of a Field General Court Martial? And if not, 
why not? Let us carry back our minds to the 
state of feeling that existed in Ulster and England 
two years ago, and answer that question without 
fear or favour. Had they been condemned I am 
sure every Nationalist in Ireland would have 
petitioned for grace. 

" Idealists are, as a rule, ready to die for their 
ideals, but they never get large numbers to die 
with them, unless there is an economic grievance 
ready to ally itself with other grievances. 

" The strike in Dublin three years ago left be- 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 51 

hind it worse feeling than any of recent years. 
Labour was starved out, and the condition of the 
poor in Dubhn is worse probably than that of any 
city in these islands. The bitter feehng of injus- 
tice engendered by the strike, and what followed, 
provided the passionate element needed to drive 
revolutionary ideahsts into action." 

" And then came the rebelhon? " 

" Yes, and the deciding factor in the rebel- 
lion was the labour leader James ConoUy, an 
organiser and leader of men; a man of action 
who insisted on the literary idealists translating 
their words into deeds. He indicated the inevi- 
table meaning of their speeches, and pointed 
the direction they must go if they were not 
to be held up to their country as mere 
dreamers. 

" I am inclined to think some months ago the 
Governing Committee of the Irish Volunteers 
passed a resolution condemning any anti-English 
or pro- German agitation; but a small inner coun- 
cil formed itself with other views, and a junction 
was formed with the Transport Union under Con- 
oily, who besides being a labour leader was an 
ardent Nationahst; his grandfather had been 
hanged after the rebelhon of 1798 and the tradi- 
tion remained in his heart. I have heard the 
policy of the Governing Committee was that there 
should be no resistance to the police or mihtary 



52 HERSELF— IRELAND 

unless disarmament or conscription were at- 
tempted. 

" The leaders of the Volunteers had sources of 
information in Government circles through whom 
they knew that a disarmament stroke was in- 
tended against them; there were details disclosed 
before the Commission, but probably these were 
not known to the Sinn Fein leaders ; only the fact 
that a disarmament was intended. It cannot be 
ascertained for certain by whom the document 
read at the Corporation Committee was forged — 
if it was forged — as the authorities state; it may 
have been done by an agent provocateur of the 
Pohce." 

" But how horrible! " I said; " do you mean to 
tell me that England stoops to employ the agent 
provocateur? " 

"Indeed, yes; they have done plenty of work 
in Ireland. Undoubtedly this was the match 
apphed to inflammable material; it alarmed the 
Volunteers throughout the country, and the Easter 
Sunday review was used as a favourable moment 
for the conflagration. Perhaps not more than 
twenty-five men in Ireland were in the secret; 
otherwise it would not have been so well kept. 
It is certain that Mr. MacNeill, the Chairman, 
was kept in ignorance. Priests announced coun- 
termanding orders in Dublin, and they were pub- 
lished in the Dublin papers. Much evil was no 



THE REBELLION OF 1916 53 

doubt prevented by these measures but the secret 
Committee issued their own orders as a counter- 
blast. On Mondaj^ the O'Rahilly returned to 
Dubhn tired but jubilant at his success in the 
country in preventing an uprising. Later on he 
went into the streets and found his own comrades 
in arms; sadly he bid his wife good-bye, knowing 
he was going to certain death, but too gallant to 
desert his comrades even in their folly. Rifle in 
hand, he joined them, and more fortunate than 
other leaders, he met his death on the field of 
battle. Hundreds of those who joined this rebel- 
lion knew nothing of what was intended, till on 
Monday rifles were put in their hands and they 
found themselves face to face with the soldiers 
and participants in an insurrection." 



CHAPTER III 

OLD DUBLIN 

The Insurrection was lamentable enough, but 
luckily it spared the most historic part of Dub- 
lin. There are many streets of shabby but still 
beautiful old houses in different quarters of the 
city with imposing doors, richly carved brass 
knockers, beautiful fanlights, wide, generous steps 
and even in their sad decay an air of hospitality 
lingers about them. They seem to say, " I was 
once not only a fine house, but a Home to those 
who loved me, and lavishly opened my doors to all 
who would enter." 

Moira House was a very fine mansion with an 
octagon room, made brilliant by inlays of mother- 
of-pearl. John Wesley was much impressed by 
its rainbow radiance, and pronounced it the 
finest room he had ever seen. Pamela, the wife 
of Lord Edward FitzGerald, was a visitor in this 
house, the guest of Lady Moira when the news 
was brought to her of the arrest of her husband. 

Burke was born at 12 Arran Quay, Dean 
Swift at 7 Hoey's Court. Sir Philip Francis, 
whom many historical students claim as the author 
of the letters of Junius, was born in Dublin, so 

54 



OLD DUBLIN 55 

was Michael Balfe, Charles Villiers Stanford, 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Joseph Le Fanu — 
never shall I forget, as a little girl, the wild thrills 
an Irish actor gave me by his recitation of 
*' Shamus O'Brien." 

*' And Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round ; 
Then the hangman drew near, and the people grew still, 
Young faces turned sickly and warm hearts grew chill. 
And the good priest has left him, having said his last 

prayer. 
But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, 
And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the 

ground ! 
Bang! Bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabres! 
He's not down ! he's alive still ! now stand to him, 

neighbours ! 
Through the smoke and the horses, he's into the crowd ! 
By the heavens he is free ! " 

What superlative joy that news gave me. 

Thomas Moore was born at 12 Aungier Street, 
and the insignificant bust on the house is not even 
kept clean, but his Irish Melodies, known all over 
the Enghsh-speaking world, will last longer than 
stone or marble. And I cannot at all agree with 
the critics who designate this lyrical poet as shal- 
low and trifling; personally I feel towards him, 
as the darkies would say, as if he were my own 
kin, for the very first song that I remember — I 
could have been scarcely four years old — was 



56 HERSELF— IRELAND 

*' The Light of Other Days." In the warm sum- 
mer evenings, my mother, dressed in a low-necked 
and short-sleeved berage, with a little lace cape 
over her shoulders, would go among her flowers 
at sundown, armed with a big watering-pot, and 
followed by a swarm of little darkies, each carry- 
ing a little watering-pot. After the procession 
finished sprinkling the grateful roses and pinks, 
crepe myrtle and jessamine, making the air fra- 
grant with a thousand spicy odours, she would step 
on to the long balcony and seat herself in her 
little rocking-chair, before the wide-open French 
doors of my nursery, and my father would bring 
her guitar and ask her to sing, and the last words 
floating me away to happy dreams were: 

"Oft in the stilly night, 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me 
Fond Memory brings the light 

Of other days around me ; 

The smiles, the tears 

Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken; 

The eyes that shone 

Now dimm'd and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! " 

And after all these years whether it be the asso- 
ciation of early memories, " the tender grace of a 
day that is dead " — for the old South changes 



OLD DUBLIN 57 

year by year — or whether Moore is really a poet — 
I love him still. 

Molyneaux House in Peter Street is quaint and 
interesting and still stands. High Street and 
Thomas Street are wide, and some of the houses 
are fine on the outside. 151 Thomas Street was 
the house of a prosperous wool merchant; it was 
at midnight, in the guest-chamber, that Lord 
Edward FitzGerald was arrested and received his 
fatal wound. 65 High Street is a particularly 
interesting house, associated as it is with the 
memory of two patriots, for Sarsfield was born 
within its walls, and Theobald Wolfe Tone's body 
rested there after his tragic end. It was in the 
rebellion of 1798 that he awaited the landing of 
the French at Killala; when arrested he was wear- 
ing the French uniform, and in this dress was 
brought to Dublin for trial and condemned to 
death. But on the day of his execution, his kins- 
man, Lord Kilwarden, who was himself a Wolfe, 
granted a decree of Habeas Corpus with an order 
to serve the writ at once. Curran, acting for 
Wolfe Tone, feared that the prisoner might be 
executed before the order arrived. " Let the 
Sheriff hasten to the barracks and see that he is 
not executed," said the Chief Justice. In a short 
time the messenger returned and said that the 
Field Marshal had refused to obey. Lord Kil- 
warden then odered the Sheriff and Provost Mar- 



58 HERSELF— IRELAND 

shal to take possession of Wolfe Tone, and show 
the order to General Craig. Notwithstanding 
the delay might mean reprieve, Wolfe Tone had 
cut his throat with a penknife, rather than meet 
death at the hands of the hangman. The wound 
was not immediately fatal, and when found pale 
and bleeding he whispered, " I am but a poor 
anatomist." The wound was sewn up, and even 
then his enemies desired his execution, but Lord 
Kilwarden allowed his brave kinsman to die of 
his self-inflicted wounds. 

Fishamble Street holds other and more cheer- 
ful memories, for Handel often played the organ 
at the Fishamble Street Theatre, and conducted 
his rehearsals for the first performance of The 
Messiah there. The Dublin Evening Post of 
April 15, 1741, was kindly but tepid in its notices 
of this noble creation: 

" On Tuesday last," it records, " Mr. Handel's 
oratorio of The Messiah was performed at the 
New Musick Hall, Fishamble Street. The best 
judges allowed it to be a most finished piece of 
musick." And it has proved not only a " finished 
piece of musick," but an inspired and immortal 
oratorio. Handel, however, was satisfied with 
this meagre praise. He wrote to a friend in 
London : 

" The nobility did me the honour to make among 
themselves a subscription for six nights which did 



OLD DUBLIN 59 

fill a room of six hundred persons so that I did 
not need to sell a single ticket at the door, and, 
without vanity, the performance was received with 
general approbation." 

Grattan, the great Irish patriot, the son of an 
eminent physician, was born in Fishamble Street. 
And Clarence Mangan, the gifted and unhappy 
poet, was born not many doors away at No. 3. 
The delicate boy had a most unhappy childhood 
owing to his father's severity and unpleasant tem- 
per. James Mangan was very like the father of 
Jane Eyre, who, to discipline his children when 
he found them wearing httle red shoes, sent them 
as a present by a friend of their mother's, ordered 
the removal of their finery, and deaf to the plead- 
ings of the two weeping little girls, placed the 
treasures on a red-hot fire and burnt them to 
ashes. It is a natural consequence for sensitive 
children unjustly punished to become morbid and 
to contract the habit of permanent unhappiness. 
At an early age Clarence Mangan was appren- 
ticed to a Scrivener, and remained at this monoto- 
nous occupation the greater part of his life. He 
is described as prematurely old at thirty-five, odd 
in appearance, near-sighted, and stoop -shouldered, 
but his face was beautifully chiselled. Whenever 
I cross St. Stephen's Green, I make a little detour 
to pass by his statue and give him a friendly greet- 
ing. If he had written nothing else, " The Dark 



60 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Rosaleen," would have proclaimed his genius. An 
Irish girl with a plaintive voice sang it without 
accompaniment to me, and I seemed to be listening 
to the sad but ever unconquerable voice of Erin's 
ages of oppression. 

Belvedere House, standing in a fine position, is 
one of the most commanding of the old Georgian 
houses. It overlooks North Great George's 
Street, that in its day was such a fashionable thor- 
oughfare. The floor of the entrance hall is of 
black and white marble, and the wide staircase is 
richly ornamented with a profusion of stucco 
work. The Venus, the Diana, and the Apollo — 
the three great reception-rooms — take their names 
from their elaborate mythological ceilings which 
are boldly executed. The chimney-piece and old 
brass fire-grates are of noble design, and over the 
mantel of the room of Diana hangs a richly 
painted Dosso Dossi. Luckily for the preservation 
of this historical house the Jesuits bought it in 
1843, and later the Rev. Professor Thomas Fin- 
lay — who has done so much for Ireland in co- 
operative work and the encouragement of manu- 
factures — was instrumental in having the orna- 
mentation, which was in bad condition, restored. 

I wonder if the students ever see a gentle, un- 
happy ghost wandering over the house; for the 
first Countess of Belvedere, whose jealous hus- 
band suspected her of an intrigue with his brother, 



OLD DUBLIN 61 

sent her to his country place, Gaulstown, and 
there she was incarcerated as a close prisoner 
for seventeen years. A dark-haired girl of 
twenty-five, when she was forced to enter her 
lonely prison, she left it a broken-spirited, white- 
haired woman over forty. Like the prisoners of 
the Bastille she had lost heart and courage, a 
stranger to her children, life's dearest links broken, 
she sank into a quiet melancholy and died. Even 
in the beginning she had never loved her husband, 
but was persuaded by her parents into the mar- 
riage, and well might she have said: 

** I go to knit two clans together ; 

Our clan and this clan unseen of yore: — 
Our clan fears nought ! but I go, O whither? 

This day I go from my mother's door. 

" He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me. 
His hand is like that of the giant Balor ; 

But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me. 
And the great stone dragon above his door. 

" Had I daughters nine with me they should tarry ; 

They should sing old songs; they should dance at 
my door; 
They should grind at the quern; — no need to marry; 

O when will this marriage-day be o'er ? " 

I went through the Coombe one day, and tried 
to imagine the poverty-stricken quarter prosperous 
and populous as it was when the Huguenots made 



62 HERSELF— IRELAND 

brocades, paduasoys — which were thick softly 
corded silks — plain silks, and Flemish tapestries 
there. Dr. Samuel Madden, the friend of John- 
son, gave handsome prizes of £50 and £25 for the 
most perfect painting on silk, £lO for the richest 
velvet, £10 for the finest coloured original tapes- 
try, and £15 for the cleverest imitation of Flemish 
tapestry. Where are all these products from 
Irish looms now? Doubtless in other countries 
treasured as heirlooms from France or Belgium. 
One piece at least of beautiful tapestry, woven 
by John Van Beaver, representing the Battle of 
the Boyne, hangs over the chimney-piece in what 
was the House of Lords. But much Irish work 
has passed to other lands. The picturesque Quays 
are full of curiosity shops, and one can cross and 
recross the bridges over the Liffey, loiter among 
old books and old china, and pass down the narrow 
lanes and alleys. Smoke Alley contained the 
theatre where Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Kemble, Miss 
Farren Garrick, Peg Woffington the beautiful, 
warm-hearted Irish actress, and other lesser lights 
delighted Dublin audiences. 

On the Quays are the two most picturesque 
buildings in Dubhn: The Four Courts, designed 
by Cooley, an Irish architect, is an imposing edifice 
of grey marble, a beautiful dome rising from the 
centre of it; and the lovely Custom House with 
four fronts. The South Front, facing the river. 



OLD DUBLIN 63 

is composed of pavilions at either end and joined 
to arcades, and united by the centre ornamentation 
of figures. They lovingly embrace each other, 
and bear in their hands emblems of peace and 
liberty. England and Ireland for ever united by 
peace, and above all by liberty. What a satiric 
commentary in stone! The dome rises splendidly 
in the centre, and is not unlike the dome of the 
Capitol. Instead of our massive Goddess of Lib- 
erty a statue of Commerce dominates it. The 
keystones of the arches are colossal heads em- 
blematic of the big rivers of Ireland. And near 
by, or far away, it is an interesting and archi- 
tecturally most beautiful building, a lovely memo- 
rial to the memory of James Gandon, the English 
architect who designed it. Sir Hugh Lane 
wanted the Municipal Gallery on the Liffey, but 
the idea did not meet with Dublin's approval, so 
the pictures are now housed in Harcourt Street. 
Why is it that some one scene or appearance in the 
life of a friend etches itself upon the memory, 
as though drawn by an indelible pen! I saw 
Hugh Lane at many distinguished assemblies in 
London, at receptions, picture exhibitions, in fine 
houses, and for the last time in New York 
the night before he sailed on the doomed Lusi- 
tania. But the picture that remains with per- 
fect distinctness in my memory of him, is on 
a day towards the end of February. The sun 



64 HERSELF— IRELAND 

had shone from early morning in a cloudless 
sky, as though it were June, and snowdrops and 
primroses had opened their pearl and velvet faces 
to the warmth, until the park was starred with 
gold and white. The budding trees looked almost 
green, as I walked from Carlton House Terrace, 
through St. James' Park, by Victoria, and on to 
Warwick Square. The magnificent sunset gave 
fair promise for the following day, banks of thin 
white clouds were transformed to rose and gold by 
the strong departing rays. It was one of those 
soft, tender days when spring, treading on the 
heels of winter, can make even the saddest spirit 
rejoice. As I approached my son's house I saw 
a man, standing at the top of the steps, ring the 
bell. Under his left arm was a large, untidy 
bundle, and when near enough I noticed a long, 
red velvet sleeve fringed with gold, which swept to 
the end of his light overcoat. When my eyes 
reached as high as his head, his hat was swept off 
with a grand bow, and there stood Hugh Lane 
laughing like a boy. 

" What in the world ? " I asked him. 

" Oh, it's easily explained," he said. " Toodie 
threatens not to wear his fancy dress to the Chel- 
sea ball to-night, so I have brought him one or 
two costumes to see if they will please him any 
better." 

" Did you tie up that bundle yourself? " I said, 



OLD DUBLIN 65 

lifting the velvet sleeve and laying it across the 
torn brown paper. 

He laughed again. " That is why people have 
been smiling and looking at me as I walked along. 
It was not my handsome self, but my handsome 
sleeve which attracted their attention." 

Then the door opened, he was shown into the 
drawing-room, and I went upstairs to try on a 
white wig. 

And that is how I always see him, as a good- 
natured, laughing boy, holding a bundle of gay 
tinsel, velvet, and silk under his arm, happy in 
doing a favour for a friend. 

What more beautiful memorial has any man 
than the Municipal Gallery of Dublin, which is 
for ever stamped with Hugh Lane's manifest 
spirit of generosity? He not only gave pictures 
of great value himself, but he so impressed his 
generous spirit upon his friends, that they too 
gave their best. Not to the gallery really, but, 
imbued by his ardent enthusiasm, to him. It is 
easy enough for all of us who have the power and 
the means to give, but to induce generosity in 
other people is quite a different matter. For that 
your own spirit must be free, genuine, sincere, and 
filled with buoyant and communicable enthusiasm. 
The Municipal Gallery ought really to have its 
name changed to Hugh Lane's Gift Gallery. It 
would better serve to explain his remarkable 



66 HERSELF— IRELAND 

genius. And not only was he generous in gifts, 
but he was generous of something far more 
precious, his time, which, with his great talent, was 
of inestimable value to the world at large. A 
member of his family told me that he often said 
at the end of a long London day, " I am tired 
to-night, and I've not had an hour to attend to my 
own affairs, from early morning till late evening, 
every moment has been given to looking at pic- 
tures, either that my friends wanted to buy or 
wanted to sell, and pronouncing judgment upon 
them." If the owner of a picture was poor and 
needy, he would travel miles to see it, and the 
smallest merit induced him to pay a fair price. 
To the more humble-minded of his friends who 
bought, instead of pictures, enamels and bronzes, 
screens or lacquer, porcelain or delft, he was quite 
as kind and lavish in his advice to them. 

One afternoon when having tea with Miss 
Purser in the drawing-room in Mespil House 
with its beautiful Georgian ceiling, I admired a 
finely carved and coloured coromandle screen. 
My hostess said, "Yes, it is beautiful; I bought 
it on the advice of Hugh Lane who went with 
me to see it." 

And many a young, struggling artist has been 
helped and heartened by his appreciative criti- 
cism and understanding suggestions. With his 
strange, divining eye, he could see the promise 




Portrait of an Irish Lady 



OLD DUBLIN 67 

and the meaning of a half -finished picture, and 
almost portend its future. One of his great and 
most amusing and unusual gifts was his vision 
of penetration, the power of seeing through and 
under layers of paint. If a beautiful lady, as 
sometimes happened, even one who had been 
painted by Romney or Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
had later a fancy for a more modern costume, 
Hugh Lane discerned her restless vanity, and 
would direct a picture restorer very carefully 
to work and remove a billowing crinohne over- 
laid with taffeta flounces, to find underneath 
it a white muslin and blue ribbons. Or a stiff, 
high-bodiced brocade, the costume of another 
changeable dame, would conceal the classical folds 
of blue gauze and fair, drooping shoulders. He 
even removed elaborate headgear, mountains of 
waving feathers and amazing coiffures to find the 
hair simply dressed, which made the charming 
face more charming still. 

The first room of the Gift Gallery is called 
the Irish Room, as the pictures in it are 
painted by distinguished artists of Irish birth or 
descent. There are two landscapes by the younger 
Nathaniel Hone, " Malahide Sands " on a golden 
evening with a wide sky full of fight and a fresh- 
ening wind, and " The Donegal Coast." Sir Hugh 
Lane thought so highly of the talent of this artist 
that he presented one of his pictures to the 



68 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Luxembourg. John La very has given a dis- 
tinguished portrait of " An Austrian Lady '* in 
a shining satin gown that you feel would be silken 
smooth to the touch. A young girl with a string 
of iridescent pearls around her neck, and a vivid 
paroquet on her shoulder, seated at an embroidery 
frame of glowing colours, is the gift of J. J. Shan- 
non. " The Winged Horse " by George Russell 
(A.E.), a finely imaginative picture, is a Lane 
gift. " The Fish Market," by Walter Osborne, 
is not only arresting as an exceedingly fine pic- 
ture full of movement and opalescent colour, but 
it depicts the picturesque old Fish Market in Pat- 
rick Street, which is now demolished. Wilham 
Orpen has contributed what he calls " Reflec- 
tions," a most brilliant study of Chinese and Japa- 
nese porcelains. A bunch of anemones by Gerald 
Chowne is rich in tone, and hke the flowers velvety 
in texture. Although every amateur begins by 
painting roses or pansies, there is really nothing 
more difficult to reproduce than the life and deli- 
cate appearance of a flower. Miss Ceciha Harri- 
son, a Dubhn artist, has contributed an expressive 
and clever portrait of herself. Mark Fisher is 
represented by his picture of " The Bathers," 
which won the gold medal at the St. Louis Ex- 
hibition, and is probably the artist's finest picture. 
Although he was born in Ireland, America claims 
the gaiety of his sunshine, and France his bold 



OLD DUBLIN 69 

technique. There are two pictures, " Towards the 
Night and Winter " and " The Study of an Old 
Woman," by Frank O'Neara, whom the gods 
loved, for he died young. There is a luminous 
study by Ambrose McEvoy, " Sheep-shearing " by 
Dermod O'Brien, " An Oriental Group," charm- 
ingly painted by Chinnery. " A Tea Party " by 
B. Bellingham Smith. " The Stranger " by Nor- 
man Gartin. "The Building of the Ship" by 
Alexander Roche. " Meditations " by Mrs. C. J. 
MacCarthy. "A Flood in the Dargle " by J. 
Vincent Duffy, and two interesting pictures, " My 
Daughter" and "The Bird Market" by John 
Butler Yeates. 

While these finish the notable Irish Room, it is 
only the beginning of this entirely interesting and 
carefully chosen collection, which includes ex- 
amples of the art of many continental painters. 
A noticeable bust is that of George Bernard Shaw 
by Rodin. The chisel of the great master reveals 
the author at his best, for the face is not only in- 
tellectual, thoughtful, and distinguished, but the 
humour in the hair slightly raised at each side 
suggests a gentlemanly faun. 

It does not seem possible that a city can contain 
such beauty as the Four Courts, the Custom 
House, the Municipal Gallery, and at the same 
time the repulsive ugliness of the slums. 

It is said that the Insurrection in Dublin can be 



70 HERSELF— IRELAND 

traced not indirectly but directly to the slums, and 
having seen them I can well believe that such a 
poisonous ulcer would make any wild upheaval in 
the blood possible. The heart-rending sights in 
this district brand themselves upon the memory. 
The largest national school is well-built, light, 
airy, and comfortably warm — but the children, oh, 
the children! The wretched, hungry, thinly clad, 
shoeless, stockingless children! I saw several boys 
wearing only one garment, a man's coat with the 
sleeves cut short, a belt round the waist, and the 
collar pinned together with a safety pin. The 
little fellows dressed in this way looked at me 
with self-conscious shame, as if I could see through 
their miserable garments to their pitiful nakedness. 
What sort of a future is the State preparing for 
these children? What has life given them but 
hunger, cold, and mortification? Between these 
wretched waifs and carefully nurtured, well-fed, 
happy, careless children, full of the joy of life 
yawns a black abyss. They live in another world. 
And, incredible as it may seem, greater depths of 
poverty are reached than the one ragged coat. 
There are children with no clothes at all. A doc- 
tor told me he had been hurriedly summoned to a 
sick call, and when he climbed five pairs of stairs 
to a garret room, it was perfectly bare except for 
an old mattress on the floor, which had been slit at 
the top, and in which were lying three children 



OLD DUBLIN 71 

stark naked, one of them very ill. Whether the 
mother was out trying to get work or drink he did 
not know. Many of the children that I saw at the 
school looked thin and frail, but, even clothed in 
one garment, others were ruddy and healthy; pre- 
sumably they are the survival of the fittest, as the 
mortality of infants and children is appalling in 
Dublin. The teachers in the national schools are 
doing noble work, but it is against horrible odds. 
They know what would help heal this festering 
sore, but are in no position to speak. Politics, 
preference, and public houses form too strong a 
combination against them. They can only appeal 
to the children by example, and give an incentive 
to order, decency, and cleanness. A large pink 
ribbon rosette is pinned on the breast of the clean- 
est child in the class. One little girl of five was 
brought forwards in a stiffly starched pinafore 
adorned with the badge of honour. She looked 
pale and chilly. The teacher said, " There is very 
little under that clean apron," and certainly two 
scant cotton garments cannot give much warmth 
on a bitter day in January. At noontime a cer- 
tain number of children who are literally starving 
for food are provided with cups of cocoa and gen- 
erous slices of bread and butter. 

A young priest whose hands seemed to touch 
half-a-dozen heads at once of the children who 
clustered about him, said to me, " Many of them 



72 HERSELF— IRELAND 

will not have a single mouthful to-day except this 
bread and cocoa. For myself, I rarely have a 
penny in my pocket, if I wanted to buy a cup of 
tea I could not. In this freezing weather the 
poverty which surrounds us cannot wait, for delay 
often means death. A woman came to me last 
night and said, ' Father, Mrs. McCarthy has a 
new-born baby, if she doesn't get food for herself 
she cannot nurse it, and the child will die.' I was 
obliged to say, ' My good woman, go away and 
leave me in peace, to-night I have not one farth- 
ing in the world. I will see the woman in the 
morning.' I give all I have and all I can beg, 
and yet the children must go hungry." 

" What," I said, " makes this overwhelming 
poverty among these people ? " 

" Want of work, poor wages, but above all 
drink," he said. " You have seen their places of 
abode?" 

" Yes," I said, " and they are not fit to shelter 
decent animals. The owner of a race-horse would 
not let it remain for half-an-hour where these 
women and children spend their lives. They have 
neither necessities nor decencies. The housing of 
the poor is a crying injustice, not only to Dublin 
but to the Imperial Government." 

" Then," said the priest, " as you have seen 
their surroundings you will scarcely wonder that 
these poor creatures go to the public houses where 



OLD DUBLIN 73 

they can have warmth and hght and sit on a clean 
chair, but aknost invariably they drink too much, 
and their condition then becomes hopeless. I am 
setting my face against the public houses imme- 
diately about us, and more than likely on this 
account I shall be removed from my work, but 
whatever the outcome, it is a question of principle. 
I must go on." 

I looked at his strong face and said, " Father, 
that jaw of yours ought to accomplish something, 
it indicates grip and courage." 

" Both are needed here," he said. 

The slums are a result of consequences. The 
consequences of human nature at its worst. They 
represent the injustice, cruelty, indifference, and 
ruthlessness of the rich to the poor, the powerful 
to the weak. They are a shrieking reproach to 
mankind, and a monster indictment against pub- 
licans, the public houses, and the corporation. 
Thank God, O thank God! that such a state of 
things could not exist in my own free country of 
yellow journalism, for newspapers would get at 
the root of the evil, and cry their knowledge from 
the housetops. Women would form themselves 
into meetings and committees, money would flow, 
and be properly applied to the cure of the can- 
cerous growth that is destroying the life and self- 
respect of Dublin. There are slums in New York, 
of course, and other cities, but nothing that ap- 



74 HERSELF— IRELAND 

proaches Dublin in the horror and dirt of its pov- 
erty. And there is scarcely a newspaper or a man 
in Ireland that dare lift a voice against the dis- 
tillers or publicans, least of all the politician whom 
they send to Parliament ; he is muzzled and obliged 
to play into the ruthless hands of the men who 
ruin the poor, and are directly responsible for the 
starvation and death of many children. Publicans 
are not impulsive murderers; they destroy by 
inches and slow methods the bodies and the souls 
of those who enrich them. It is prophesied that 
in twenty-five years every saloon in every State in 
the Union will be closed. If this is done, then 
indeed America will be the greatest country in the 
world. I have only seen one paper in Ireland that 
has dared to speak in favour of temperance; it is 
edited by a man of unswerving honesty and un- 
flinching courage, George Russell, " A.E.," who 
says: 

" We must say, though we never liked autoc- 
racy, that we envied Russia its autocrat, when we 
read the letter printed on the Russian Budget and 
prohibition. In Russia for the sake of human effi- 
ciency and decency, the State sacrificed a revenue 
of £90,000,00(> a year, and no intoxicating liquors 
containing more than one and a half per cent, of 
alcohol are allowed to be manufactured or sold. 
This prohibition is probably the most beneficent 
action any autocrat took since an ancestor of the 



OLD DUBLIN 75 

present Czar emancipated the serfs, and the Rus- 
sian Duma passed a law making prohibition per- 
manent. Russia will be a dry Empire, in future, 
and we have not the slightest doubt when its brains 
are no longer muddled with vodka, it will become 
one of the most progressive nations in the world. 
We in Ireland have signahsed the War by in- 
creasing expenditure on drink by two millions. 
The world tragedy has been celebrated by us by 
the expenditure of fifteen million pounds spent on 
alcohol in one year. Fifteen million pounds on 
drink, when industry and agriculture are starved 
for want of capital and a body like the Agricul- 
tural Organisation Society finds it difficult to get 
the few thousand a year it requires to carry on its 
work of national organisation of agriculture. Fif- 
teen million pounds spent in muddling our wits 
and suppressing the soul of God breathed into 
man, in one small country with a population of 
four million people. Our politicians are afraid of 
their lives to hint at enmity to this beastly trade! 
Men who won't unite or consult with each other 
for the good of their country, will unite cordially 
for its evil, so that the devil may always be on 
tap in pints and pots, in bottle and in barrel for 
all who require him. We wonder whether any of 
the galaxy of autocrats created by Mr. Lloyd- 
George will have the courage to prohibit the 
sale of alcohol in these islands? The unmaking 



76 HERSELF— IRELAND 

of the distilleries would be the making of the 
people." 

Ireland can be quite certain none of Mr. Lloyd- 
George's autocrats will have the courage to pro- 
hibit the abolition or sale of alcohol. And not a 
single Irish member of Parliament would dare 
wage war against the distilleries of Ireland. 

A. M. Sullivan, writing of the Temperance 
movement, under Father Mathew in 1845, said: 

" That never had a people made within the 
same space of time such strides from hardship to 
comparative comfort, from improvidence to thrift, 
from the crimes of inebriate passion to the ordered 
habits of sobriety and industry. It did not remove 
the deep-lying political causes of Irish poverty and 
crime; but it brought to the humblest help, it 
banished from thousands of homes afflictions that 
politics could neither create nor cure, it diffused 
self-respect and self-reliance among the people. 
We all noted its influence, not only in their per- 
sonal habits, but in dress, in manners, and in the 
neatness and tidiness of their homes. The magis- 
tracy and police told of crime greatly diminished. 
The clergy told of churches better filled with 
decent worshippers. Traders rejoiced to find how 
vast was the increase in expenditure on articles of 
food and clothing or of home or personal com- 
forts. It was convincing to find that the annual 
committals to prison in the seven years from 1839 



OLD DUBLIN 77 

to 1845, with a rapidly increasing population, 
showed a steady decrease from twelve thousand to 
seven thousand; that the capital sentences in each 
year declined gradually from sixty-six to four- 
teen; and that the penal convictions sank from 
nine hundred in 1839 to five hundred in 1845." 
And the same result would be found to-day if 
a temperance movement swept over Ireland. 
Drink is a strong and slimy web which covers the 
entire country, and no courageous knight-errant 
will rise up with righteous sword to cut its veno- 
mous threads. 

The Homestead, edited by George Russell, is a 
high-minded, courageous paper, animated by lofty 
ideals to benefit mankind. With capital behind 
it, the good it might accomplish is limitless; 
unfortunately capitalists are not idealists, and 
so the slums of Dublin and other wrongs remain 
unrighted. 

It says much for Dublin that not even the 
slums, when one gets away from them, can affect 
its charm. The pale silvery grey skies, the sweet 
green even in mid-winter of the peaceful squares, 
the leisurely approach of the public vehicles, noth- 
ing is hurried in Dublin. Running quickly to catch 
a tram, the conductor notices my plump propor- 
tions and calls out, " Ah, sure, don't hurry, lady, 
we'll wait for you." The same thing would have 
been said to me in New Orleans, or in Charleston, 



78 HERSELF— IRELAND 

by a tram conductor there. Heaven bless them, 
and all people who wait for us — pleasantly. 

Another day I had lunched with a friend at 
Kingstown and found at the station that my 
ticket had vanished. 

" I'm very sorry, but I've lost my ticket," I said 
to the man at the gate, " what are you going to 
do with me? " 

" Sure, what can I do wid yez, lady," said the 
man, " but pass yez through, an' say no more 
about it? " 

And it was in Dublin that I met a waiter who 
refused a tip! I often think I've expected too 
much of life, but I certainly never expected to 
meet a waiter who would refuse a tip! Such an 
experience convinces me more than a sheaf of 
literature, of the uncalculating generosity of the 
Irishman. Think of a waiter in the dead of night 
refusing a perfectly good two-shilling piece from 
a lady whom he was never to see again. And 
thus it happened : 

I was dining with Sir John and Lady O'Con- 
nell at Kilkenny, and though my subconscious man 
advised me against it, they had no great difficulty 
in persuading me to take a late train. The com- 
pany was agreeable, and as there were none of 
them coming to town, naturally they were opti- 
mistic about my finding a cab at the station, but 
the station and street were as empty of cabs as 



OLD DUBLIN 79 

Venice. The night was rather dark, and even in 
the daylight my sense of location was vague. I 
looked about, and asked a man the way to the 
Shelbourne. He was just tipsy enough to be too 
obliging, and said he would show me the way. I 
dechned the offer — crossed the street — it was then 
nearly midnight — and rang the bell of a small 
hotel. The porter who answered the door tele- 
phoned for a taxi, but they were all out, and 
the man in the garage said it might be a long time 
before any of them came in. I asked was there 
a waiter who would see me safely to the Shel- 
bourne. " Yes," he said, " a man who lived in 
Kildare Street," would change his coat and be 
ready to escort me in a moment. Presently a 
tall, pink-faced young man appeared, speaking 
with a tremendous brogue, and we started for 
the Hotel. 

" Lady, you look like an American lady who 
used to come to Killarney. Are you an American 
lady? " 

" I am," I said. • " Have you ever thought of 
going to America? " 

" That's the dearest wish of me heart, an' 'tis 
to America I'm goin' the minute the war's over." 

" I wish," I said, looking at his fine physique, 
"more young Irishmen would go to the war." 

" Tim wint," he said ; " he was killed at Ypres." 

"Was he your brother?" I asked. 



80 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" Yes, he was the oldest of the flock ; he was 
more hke me Mother than anny of us. Tim cud 
dance the ould Irish dances, an' he was a great 
wun for the songs; me Mother was too when we 
was childer; an' he played the fiddle in a way to 
draw the Good People from the mountains to 
listen to him. It was a great blow to me Mother 
whin Tim wint an' 'listed in the Dublin Fusiliers. 
I was goin', but me Mother put her apron over 
her head, an' rocked an' cried, an' wouldn't un- 
cover the poor face on her, till I promised to stay 
in Ireland." 

" What do you think of Conscription? " I said. 
" What would you do then? " 

"Ah, well," he said; "sure if they compelled 
me to go I'd go willingly, so I would, for then 
me Mother could say nothin.' " 

" Tell me," I said, " why do you want so much 
to go to America; you will have to leave your 
Mother then?" 

"Mary's there," he said; "me friend Mary 
O'Hagan, an' she says it's the grandest place, an' 
plenty of money to be made. She's in a grand 
shop, an' she's savin' a hundred pounds an' more. 
She do make dresses most beautiful, she learned 
her trade in Cork." 

"Where is she?" I asked. "In what part of 
America? " 

" Mitchigan," he said. " Detroit, Mitchigan. 



OLD DUBLIN 81 

She's with her brother an' his wife. They do be 
havin' a grand house them two, for he's a builder 
he is." 

"And is Mary your sweetheart?" I asked. I 
could see him blush as we passed under a street- 
lamp. 

" There's a kindness bechune us," he said. " A 
great kindness bechune us two; there has been — 
since me an' Mary was no more than fourteen 
years old — me Mother loves Mary too. She's a 
grand girl indeed is Mary." 

" I am sure of it," I said. " And I hope you 
will both be happy in my country, which has 
proved a happy home for so many Irish people. 
Good-night, and thank you." I held out the two 
shillings. 

" Good-night, lady," he said. " I'm pleased to 
have been of service to you," and with a grand 
sweep of his hat, and a careless glance towards 
the bright coin, he vanished into the night. 

Perhaps he refused the money because I came 
from Mary's country — how soon the Irish with 
appreciative understanding adopt America as their 
own — with " a kindness between them, a great 
kindness." It was the first time I had heard the 
expression, and how tender it is — he is sure to 
follow Mary, and one day they will have a little 
house all their own, built by the builder in 
" Mitchigan." 



CHAPTER IV 

DEAN SWIFT 

He now toould praise esteem approve, 
■But understood not what was love. 

The Cathedral of St. Patrick has had a 
chequered past. It was founded as early as 1190. 
The great tower of Irish limestone, with walls 
ten feet thick, was built by Archbishop Minot, in 
1362. After various dangers, dilapidations, and 
vicissitudes, the complete restoration was begun 
in 1865. The ground plan is said to be of a 
beautiful proportion, and the great Latin Cross 
demonstrates a mind of wonderful mathematical 
knowledge and accuracy; being finer and more ex- 
quisitely exact than any Cathedral in England. 
The interior is adorned with numerous monuments, 
brasses, and tablets, among them an imposing 
fourteenth century statue of St. Patrick. Fur- 
ther away, a little crowd of people, seventeen in 
all, piously kneeling together, are described as 
Sir Edward Fitton, his wife, and family. He was 
President of Thomond under Queen Elizabeth. 
A monument to Dame Mary Sentleger describes 
a full life, inasmuch as during her thirty-seven 

82 



DEAN SWIFT 83 

years, the lady provided herself with four hus- 
bands. It is to be hoped the manner of their 
death was enquired into before her prowess in 
disposing of them was recorded. 

There are banners and escutcheons to the 
Knights of St. Patrick, tributes to the Royal 
Irish, who fought so bravely at Sebastopol, and 
a finely carved Celtic Cross to the memory of the 
heroes of the South African campaign. There is a 
bas-relief to Turlough Carolan, the last of the 
Irish bards; I daresay the good-looking blue-eyed 
Carolans of California are his descendants; but 
nothing interested me so much as the bust of Dean 
Swift, his epitaph to Stella, his epitaph of him- 
self, and his autograph contained in a httle glass 
case. 

When I was a little girl, the most condemnatory 
word applied in the South to a person, or persons, 
was " Yahoo," or " Yahoos." I have known a 
good many in my life, and they inevitably remain 
as they were born, Yahoos. Dean Swift enriched 
the language with other words equally useful, 
Liliputian and Brobdingnagian, for example. My 
father insisted upon my reading at a very early 
age Scott's Swift, and I remember exactly how 
the books of Addison, Swift, Steele, Dryden, 
Pope, Grey, and Arbuthnot were bound, and on 
which shelf of the library they stood. 

My beloved father, who was himself a man of 



84 HERSELF— IRELAND 

great independence, used to tell the story of the 
Lord Treasurer, who at one of his levys asked 
Swift to present Parnell, and he replied with a 
brilliant smile, " A man of genius, my Lord, al- 
though you may not realise it, is superior to a 
Lord in station, and, therefore, I will leave you to 
seek out Dr. Parnell and introduce yourself." 
Lord Oxford took the reprimand good-naturedly, 
and with his Treasurer's staff went from room to 
room until he discovered his guest. 

On another occasion, when the Duke of Buck- 
inghamshire, a nobleman who bristled with pride, 
asked to be introduced to him, the Dean raised his 
handsome head, and said: 

" I regret that at present it is impossible. The 
Duke has not yet made sufficient advances to me." 

I suppose on account of his reputation for wit, 
his sarcastic humour was borne with patience. If 
he had lived in the present day, there would have 
been no unwise insurrection, he would have been 
the leader of the Clan-na-Gael or Sinn Fein, or 
of both, as the text of all his eloquence was Ire- 
land for the Irish. AVhat a pity that he could not 
have been one of those souls waiting for birth, so 
poetically described by Maeterlinck. With the 
fearless genius of Dean Swift now at the helm of 
affairs in Ireland, she might have had independ- 
ence, respect, and recognition as a nation. 

It is two hundred years ago, in 1719, that he 



DEAN SWIFT 85 

wrote a pamphlet entitled " The Proposals for 
the Universal Use of Irish Manufactures," its 
object being to induce the people of Ireland to use 
only wearing apparel, furniture, carpets, and rugs 
manufactured in the country, and to close their 
markets against everything wearable imported 
from England. What he said seemed an echo of 
the Irish House of Commons, but it was in reality 
a stinging and bitter protest against the inhumanity 
and injustice which had characterised the policy 
of England towards Ireland since 1665. It was a 
clarion note to the nation at any cost to assert 
herself. 

" Burn everything from England except the 
coal! " he exhorted them. 

In 1660, the prospects of Ireland looked fair and 
bright, the soil was fertile, the pasture lands rich 
and beautiful. There were many rivers which 
were navigable, and the ports and harbours — 
alas, now lonely and deserted — were the envy of 
maritime Europe. Farm produce, fat cattle, and 
grain were sent to England, and fine woollen 
goods were being rapidly manufactured. There 
was hopeful talk and plans of sending ships laden 
with goods to the Colonies. But either England 
feared Ireland's commercial relations with other 
countries, or, jealous of her, she deliberately pro- 
ceeded to destroy all her fair prospects. The 
wool trade was ruined, industrial people were 



86 HERSELF— IRELAND 

thrown upon the parish for charity, and emigra- 
tion — which, alas, has never since ceased — sent 
the strong and the able-bodied from the coun- 
try. With a prophetic realisation of Ireland's 
cruel future, and a resentment that his own bril- 
liant efforts in her behalf had failed, it was no 
wonder the heart of Dean Swift was ahnost 
broken and his whole life was embittered. He 
never forgot the terrible scenes of famine and 
wretchedness which he had witnessed, although, 
with his splendid intellect, he had moments and 
hours of keen enjoyment, and until the death of 
his tender, devoted, life-long friend, Esther John- 
son, he was never lonely. 

She was only seven years old when Swift first 
saw her. They lived under one roof; he as the 
secretary; her mother, Lady Giffard as house- 
keeper, to Sir William Temple. To amuse himself 
he began to teach the thoughtful, pretty, intelli- 
gent, gentle child, who won his heart by diligence 
to her books. He was her revered teacher, she 
was his beloved pupil, and thus began the innocent 
friendship which was to prove his greatest happi- 
ness, and to last until her death. There is no 
manner of doubt that Swift loved Esther John- 
son; that he ever fell in love with her is another 
question. 

There can be, and are, strange bonds between 
the sexes. A man can love a woman as a com- 



DEAN SWIFT 87 

panion, comrade, and friend without desiring 
her as a wife. A woman can love a man without 
desiring him as a husband. The spark of passion 
between them has not been, and can never be, 
ignited. If spiritual and physical communion on 
both sides be compassed, that marriage is planned 
in Heaven. But such unions are all too rare. 
Many marriages are only a compromise. Many 
friendships are only a compromise. Occasionally, 
there is an understanding so complete between 
two people that words are almost unnecessary. I 
had such an understanding with my father; and it 
is as restful and refreshing to the spirit as a soft, 
warm bath to the body. 

The bond between Swift and Esther Johnson 
was a spiritual one, with no hint of passion to 
disturb the harmony. He ioved her too much to 
marry another woman, and what woman could 
have borne his friendship with Esther? Whom, 
nevertheless, he did not love enough to marry. 
Perhaps he was incapable of such love. Undoubt- 
edly there are men born celibates and priests, as 
there are men born to be soldiers and patriots. 
Esther Johnson was not an unusual woman to be 
satisfied with friendship alone, there are many 
such in the world who can subjugate passion with 
tenderness. And there would be much more 
friendship between the sexes but for a censorious 
world. To men and women, of undeveloped intel- 



88 HERSELF— IRELAND 

lectuality and meagre spiritual gifts there appears 
to be but one bond existing between other men 
and women — a physical one — whereas, a spiritual 
bond is often the strongest, and the most en- 
during. 

Next to the love of a mother for her children, 
there is no love more unselfish than that of a true 
friend. It is effortless, flowing in a strong, deep 
tide, like the waters of the Mississippi. It is 
easy and comfortable, giving a feeling of sureness 
and serenity that is almost unknown in love. And 
perhaps friendship has even higher ideals than 
love. To find a friend unworthy creates a most 
hurtful wound. 

Swift enjoyed the intellect of Esther Johnson, 
he respected her character, he basked in her reason- 
able amiability, he desired above all things to 
stand well in her eyes, and, allowing for his 
divagations, she remained the first woman in his 
life and in his heart. That he philandered with 
Hester Vanhomrigh is perfectly certain, but there 
are the fewest men in the world — particularly 
middle-aged men — who would not inhale incense 
offered to their vanity by a young woman en- 
amoured of their vanishing charms. The fumes 
are too potent for resistance. Dean Swift had an 
extraordinary mind and intellect, but his vanity 
was like that of other men. Hester Vanhomrigh 
offered him the most seductive of all flatteries. 




Peg Woffingtox 

National Gallery, Dublin 



DEAN SWIFT 89 

a physical adoration of his fine eyes, his fine 
nose, his fine hands, rather than his fine 
intellect. 

For a moment her fresh enthusiasm gave him 
renewed youth. While in her presence he felt the 
world a gayer, pleasanter place, but with a man 
of his clear and bitter insight into motives and 
character, the reaction came, and there were dan- 
gerous intervals for her and for him, when he 
almost despised her, but she was passionately 
importunate. 

" It is impossible," she wrote in one of her let- 
ters, " to describe what I have suffered since I 
saw you last. I am sure I could have borne the 
rack much better than those killing words of 
yours. Sometimes I have resolved to die without 
seeing you again, but these resolves to your mis- 
fortune did not last long." 

Swift, being a man, in answer naturally wrote 
the wrong letter. 

" I will see you in a day or two, and, believe 
me, it goes to my heart not to see you oftener. 
I will give you the best advice, countenance, and 
assistance I can. I would have been with you 
sooner, if a thousand impediments had not pre- 
vented me. I did not know you had been under 
difficulties. I am sure my whole fortune should 
go to remove them. I cannot see you to-day, I 
fear, having affairs of my own place to do, but 



90 HERSELF— IRELAND 

pray do not think it want of friendship or tender- 
ness, which I will always continue to the utmost." 

This suggestively worded missive, while it says 
nothing obviously compromising, soothes and puts 
forth delicate tendrils of hope, and no drowning 
man is quicker to catch at straws than the anxious 
and uncertain lover. 

Probably, if there had been no other woman, 
Hester Vanhomrigh would have captured the 
Dean; as it was, she only appealed to his vanity, 
while Esther Johnson appealed to his heart. Many 
men have philandered at the same moment with 
two women. One is loved, the other is appreci- 
ated for her love of him. Dean Swift may have 
been devoid of passion, but he was not devoid 
of the love of adulation, he would have been 
superman if he had been. He cared nothing for 
Hester, and when she eventually wrote a letter to 
Esther Johnson, demanding to know if the Dean 
was her lover or husband, and jeopardised his 
relations with his life-long friend, he was trans- 
ported with rage, rode on the wings of the wind 
to Celbridge Abbey, rushed into Vanessa's boudoir, 
threw the offending missive at her feet, and in 
that tragic moment of silence the man and the 
woman dropped their protecting masques and 
looked upon each other for the first time. Hes- 
ter saw a man devoid of all compassion toward 
her, his heart filled with rage, selfishness, and 



DEAN SWIFT 91 

irreconcilable resentment; and he saw a woman 
whose quest had failed, hard, angry, and vindic- 
tive. With a grim look of hate and no word of 
farewell, he left her for ever. 

This action is conclusive evidence of where his 
heart belonged, and which woman he wished to 
protect and save from pain. A great deal of 
sympathy has been lavished on Vanessa, but 
after all Dean Swift practised no deceit upon her. 
She knew too of his allegiance to another woman. 
Diana was a huntress. There are many women 
who love the chase. Vanessa was one of them. 
To conquer the citadel of a heart that has en- 
dured a long siege is very sweet. Shaw has never 
written a truer document than " Man and Super- 
man." There are innumerable Annes. At the 
present time they are nursing in hospitals in 
France and in England. They are travelling back 
and forth to Serbia. They are seeking and finding 
opportunities all over this warring and wounded 
world to exercise the unacknowledged right of 
choosing their mates. Men are having nothing 
their own way any longer. Not even the quest. 

But, however manufactured, the human heart 
"loves romance. There are people who have never 
read a line of Dean Swift, who know of the exist- 
ence of " Vanessa's Bower." In the grounds of 
Celbridge Abbey, an ancient and picturesque 
bridge, so overgrown with ivy that only the arches 



92 HERSELF— IRELAND 

are visible, connects a little island in the Liffey 
with the mainland. A screen of laurel, cypress, 
yew, and box trees hides the celebrated arbour 
which blossomed in roses, eglantine, jessamine, 
and honeysuckle. It was not only the meeting- 
place of Dean Swift and Vanessa, but Henry 
Grattan loved it, and has written a poem of re- 
monstrance to one of the later owners. Dean 
Marley, who meditated making changes in the 
grounds near the island. 

There is a very early link connecting this his- 
toric house with America, for in 1683, Colonel 
Thomas Dongan, one of the younger sons of the 
owner of the Abbey, was appointed Governor 
General of the Duke of York's Province in New 
York. Sympathising with the ambition of the 
Colonists, he called together a General Assembly 
which formed a Charter of Liberties, and he ef- 
fected a Treaty with the Five Nations of the 
Iroquois Indians, withdrawing them from their 
French Allies. He also granted to New York 
City the celebrated Dongan Charter, which is still 
the basis and foundation of its municipal law. 
The Duke of York's Province comprised at that 
time the States of Maine and New York and the 
islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard. 

Booth, the historian of the City of New York, 
wrote of Colonel Dongan, " The firm judicial 
policy of this distinguished Irishman, his stead- 



DEAN SWIFT 93 

fast integrity, and his pleasing and courteous ad- 
dress soon won the affections of the people." 

He was, however, recalled in 1688; and on the 
death of his elder brother, William, whose son had 
been killed in the Battle of the Boyne, he became 
Earl of Limerick. It was after he had succeeded 
to the Earldom that Celbridge Abbey was leased 
or sold to Bartholomew Vanhomrigh, and upon 
his death it descended to his daughter Hester. 

This honoured house, one of the landmarks of 
history and romance, which holds so many memo- 
ries of famous aristocrats, statesmen, poets, and 
patriots, has now passed into the hands of appre- 
ciative Americans. 



CHAPTER V 

HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 

And then I found Hicks. Hicks the rare — 
Hicks the untemptable — Hicks the incorruptible 
— the man to whom, after a deal in old furniture, 
Lord Charles Beresford said, " Hicks, when you 
die, you ought not to be buried; you should be 
stuffed and put in a glass-case." 

A httle old, interesting engraving of George 
Washington, displayed in the window, induced me 
to enter a shop and enquire the price. It proved 
moderate, and I bought the print in spite of its 
not representing President Washington at his 
best. The mouth, though firm, looks as if the 
lips had closed over a set of very badly fitting 
false teeth, which was probable, as history records 
that General Washington, like many of the sol- 
diers at the front to-day, suffered from tooth- 
ache; and false teeth were not made with the per- 
fection of the present mechanician, although I have 
seen some wretched affairs, not only in Ireland, 
but elsewhere. And Mr. Labouchere had in all, 
twenty-seven sets of false teeth. He used to say 
that wherever he went he had teeth made, hop- 
ing they would be more comfortable than the 

94 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 95 

others. At their villa in Florence, after a dinner- 
party, when the guests were assembled in the 
library, a distinguished General of the Enghsh 
Army, standing by the mantelpiece, smoking a 
cigarette, flicked the ashes into a small coral- 
coloured object. Mr. Labouchere watched him 
with mischievous eyes and no interference until 
the receptacle was heaping full; then he said: 

" General, do you know you have been using my 
teeth as an ash-receiver? " 

The General said, "God bless me, so I 
have." 

" It's a matter of no consequence," said Mr. 
Labouchere. "I've got twenty-six other sets of 
false teeth; there is no reason why one of them 
should not be converted into an ash-tray." 

In the sourse of conversation about the engrav- 
ing and its authenticity, this Irishman's name, by 
the way, was Bragazzi— his father was an Italian, 
and he makes beautiful frames — I asked him the 
names of shops for old furniture. 

" The most honest man in Dublin for old furni- 
ture," he said; " he hasn't got the most, mind you, 
but what he has got he'll speak the truth about, 
for he can nayther be bought nor sold, is Hicks of 
Lower Pembroke Street." 

"Do you mean to tell me," I said, "there is 
such a rara avis in the world, such an original 
and surprising creature, as a dealer in antiques 



96 HERSELF— IRELAND 

who is scrupulously honest and reliable? -I can 
hardly believe you." 

" Lady, you can, for I'm tellin' you no lies. 
And the amazin' part of it is, an' that's where 
Hicks' timptation comes in, he can make new fur- 
niture out of old wood, an' the divil himself can't 
tell that it's new. But Hicks he'll up and tell 
you, if he cud make a hundred pounds or more, 
'tis new an' 'tis old." 

I said, " It seems to me that Hicks is making 
a glorious path to Heaven, isn't he?" 

" He is that, lady, an' he won't stumble over a 
single imitation table, or stool, or chair on the 
way. You see, it is in Hicks' blood to make 
furniture; his father was a famous chairmaker 
of Dubhn. Now, occasionally, a beautiful old 
chair of the elder Hicks will come on the market, 
and fetch a large price as a genuine old bit of 
Chippendale, Sheraton, or Hepplewhite. The 
father trained both his sons, William and James, 
to be not only first-class cabinet-makers, but rale 
artists. William — Lord rest his soul! — was a fa- 
mous carver, and had a hand on him as light and 
delicate as a woman, and as steady and strong as 
a man. Sir Thornley Stoker owned a table carved! 
by William Hicks; the wood was a fine old piece 
of mahogany, and his understandin' hand done 
justice to it. After Sir Thornley 's death, in the 
sale of his furniture, one of these Bond Street 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 97 

dealers pronounced it a genuine Adam table — no 
Irishman was going to contradict him — there were 
many bidders for it, and the hammer fell at 
115 guineas, and it went off to London. James 
Hicks is just as remarkable in his way as his 
brother Wilham. Sir Thornley Stoker, wander- 
ing about the old shops, — he was a born col- 
lector, — came across a fine old wreck, so bad, that 
old Mrs. Brady was glad enough to get five 
pounds for it. It was a Louis Quinze chest of 
drawers with a bow in front, as the legs were 
entirely gone, sittin' flat on the floor. Sir Thorn- 
ley sent it on to James Hicks, who restored it and 
made new legs of old wood. It was afterwards 
pronounced genuine by competent — annyway, 
they thought themselves competent — judges, and 
at Sir Thornley 's sale fetched three hundred 
guineas. Hicks is well known to royalty and 
aristocracy; he has made a lot of old-new furni- 
ture for the Duke of Connaught's house in Lon- 
don, and while the Connaughts were resident in 
the Royal Hospital, he gave the Duchess lessons 
in cabinet-making. There is no one in the king- 
dom that can turn out more beautiful work in 
marquetry. Give him a piece of fine old satin- 
wood, and bits of hardwood, and he can make a 
table or a cabinet that would pass for a fine 
French piece annywhere, even in France. In 
fact, a good many of his pieces have found their 



98 HERSELF— IRELAND 

way to Paris. He buys tumbled-down, forlorn 
wrecks of furniture that you wouldn't look at; 
they can be covered with dirt and divided with 
cracks, but he makes no mistake, and turns old 
mahogany tables, old beds, and old sideboards 
into beautiful copies of old furniture. It is a 
pity that he rarely puts his name on anny of his 
work, as he never keeps annything long. A lot of 
the London dealers come over to buy his stuff, and 
they tell me a great deal of it has been passed as 
genuine old French and English pieces; and to 
my thinkin', it would be just as well that Ireland 
got the credit for good Irish work. But he's 
an artist, not a tradesman, and glory be to God, 
it's not his fault that he ever sells annything. I 
was in his place one day when Lady Cadogan, 
who was the Lady Liftenant of them times, came 
in with some quality, and began to admire his 
stock, and she particularly liked some chairs. He 
was standin' by with a pad and pencil. ' No,' he 
said, ' thim chairs is not as they ought to be. If 
I was to make thim ag'in here's what I'd do '; and 
then he began to draw different parts, and if he 
didn't go about among thim English folk dis- 
paragin' his own work and showin' thim how he 
could improve on it. Bein' accustomed to Eng- 
lish tradesmen, who have a rule of praisin' ivery- 
thing in their own shops, — good, bad, and indif- 
ferent, and the more indifferent the more praise 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 99 

— these ladies and gintlemen didn't know whether 
Hicks was a fraud or a janius. But one thing 
they did know: they had never met annybody like 
him in Bond Street. They had to come to Ireland 
to find himself. He has got an order now from 
the Queen of Spain to make an illegant writin'- 
table and a large chair for Prince George of Bat- 
tenburg as a wedding present. The chances are 
that the table and chair will go out of Dublin 
without annywan but myself seein' thim, when, 
sure, they ought to be put on exhibition in Grafton 
Street for ivery stranger to see what can be done 
in Ireland. But maybe if you are over here whin 
they are ready for the Prince you can see thim." 

When finished, the chair and table were noble 
pieces of furniture. I saw them before they were 
packed, and Hicks was in great feather, as he 
said Prince George had the taste of a gintleman, 
and would appreciate his work. 

It was after my talk with Brigazzi that I went 
to see Hicks, and since then I have spent many 
afternoons in the shop of that entertaining man. 
The night before my first visit, that brilliant Irish- 
man, Barry O'Brien, the biographer of Parnell, 
was talking to me of that great statesman. 

" I claim," I said, " through America, half of 
Parnell's glory. Do you remember the descrip- 
tion of him by A. M. Sullivan? ' In everything 
but convictions and resolutions, a more un-Irish, 



100 HERSELF— IRELAND 

un-Celtic man it would be rare to meet.' He is, 
indeed, the very antithesis of the emotional and 
impulsive Celt, whose heart divides with his head, 
the course of his policy. Many EngHshmen ex- 
pect to see in him a burly, brawling, fierce Irish- 
man. Instead of that, they would meet a pale- 
faced and thoughtful young gentleman, quiet, 
reserved, and refined. In personal appearance, in 
manners, voice, and accent, he is English with a 
tinge of the American. A stranger would judge 
him to be a cultivated Englishman who lived in 
America, or a cultivated American who had lived 
in England." 

" Yes," said Barry O'Brien, " but you know that 
Parnell's grandfather. Admiral Stewart, known 
as Old Ironsides, was an American. After a 
dashing courtship, he married Elizabeth Tudor, 
a beautiful girl of New England birth." 

" I visited Mrs. William Tudor in Boston," 
I said. "A lovely portrait of Elizabeth Tudor 
hung in the drawing-room; she was Wilham 
Tudor's grandmother as well as Parnell's." 

" When she was the affianced bride of Admiral 
Stewart," said Barry O'Brien, "he asked, as he 
was saihng for English waters, 'When I come 
back what shall I bring you?' 'An Enghsh 
frigate,' she said. 'I'll bring you two,' he an- 
swered, and he did. His battleship appeared 
with two frigates in tow. Do you know that 




The Cross op^ Cong 

Made for Turlough O'Conor, King of Ireland in 11^3, designed as a 
shrine worthy to liold a piere of the true Cross 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 101 

pretty story of your high-spirited country- 
women? " 

What a strange coincidence that I was to see 
the picture of those very ships. Looking about 
the salesroom of Hicks the next day, he soon 
divined my nationahty, and offered to show me 
two pictures that were in process of packing for 
shipment to America. A hfe-sized portrait of 
Admiral Stewart, in the gold-laced uniform of the 
American Navy was one; and a picture of three 
ships — an American battleship and two Eng- 
lish frigates — was the other. They had originally 
come from America, had hung for many years in 
Avondale, Parnell's house in Wicklow, and were 
now going home. I hope they have crossed the 
water for the last time, and will be treasured by 
some member of the Tudor family. 

" How much are these chairs? " I asked Hicks, 
on another visit. 

" They are not for sale ; they belong to a gintle- 
man who sent them to me fifteen years ago to be 
repaired." 

I smiled. "Fifteen years ago! And have you 
repaired them? " 

" They are nearly finished," said Hicks. 
" When he comes for them they'll soon be ready." 

"And don't you charge for storage?" 

"An' how could I be doin' that? Sure, the 
man may be travellin'; certainly he has the best 



102 HERSELF— IRELAND 

of raisons for leavin' thim chairs here. But that's 
not so long as a harpsichord a lady left with me 
for twenty-five years, and it would have been 
there still but for a dinner-party given by the 
Duke of Connaught." 

" Did you lend it to the Duke for the party? " 
I asked, remembering that one day I had seen a 
van piled high with beautiful furniture, which 
Mrs. Hicks, a true lady in manner and in heart, 
told me they were lending to a poor young doctor 
who was getting married. I wonder if they'll 
lend it to him for fifteen years. 

" God bless my soul, no," said Hicks. " The 
Duke wouldn't be borrowin' furniture. He has 
got a very fair an' decided taste of his own; he 
knows what to buy, and he buys it. What a 
blessin' for Ireland if we had him here altogether. 
He's a rale gintleman — if he is a royalty — and 
he could help settle The Irish Question better 
than most, because he has an understandin' of the 
people. The Irish like him, and they wouldn't 
like him if he didn't like thim." 

" Tell me," I said, " about the dinner and the 
harpsichord." 

" I have to go back," said Hicks, " to whin the 
piano arrived from London, and I paid twenty- 
five shilhn's carriage — I wrote that down in a book 
— and I heard nothin' more. Twenty years after- 
wards, I opened the case; the instrument pretty 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 103 

well fell to pieces. It wasn't for music the lady 
bought it, annyhow, but for satinwood, and sure 
it was a rare piece of wood. There was wan other 
thing in the case, a mahogany stand. A grand 
thickness it was, and I could have used it for 
manny a thing, and thought I would when twenty- 
three years wint by. But, as luck would have it, 
I let it alone. Then the Duke came to me and 
says, ' Hicks, have you got an old satinwood piano 
or harpsichord?' 'I have. Sir,' I said. 'I got 
one at a sale in town. It is a beautiful piece of 
satinwood, and has got the name of the maker on 
it, — H. Woffington, — most probably he was a 
relative of the celebrated actress, Peg Woffington, 
that wonderful daughter of a Dublin bricklayer 
and a Dublin laundress, who took the town by 
storm in the Beggar's Opera, when she was only 
eighteen years old. But she could niver have gone 
straight into opera without some musical educa- 
tion; so it seems to me, that her father and the 
H. Woffington that made this harpsichord 
must have been brothers. That Mrs. Woffington 
must have been a great woman to preside at the 
Tory dinners of the Beefsteak Club.' Well, the 
Duke was very pleased to hear about the harpsi- 
chord, and I didn't let him see it until I got a 
pianomaker to come and set the movements right, 
and it made a nice little gentle, old-fashioned, 
tingling kind of music. Most dealers make these 



104 HERSELF— IRELAND 

pianos into cabinets, but I think it is much better 
to leave things for what they were meant to be. 
If it is possible, a thing should remain honestly 
what it is. I must say that the Duke was pleased 
and smiling when he saw the piano," — then Hicks 
gave an unconscious sigh, — " but what with one 
thing and another, restoring it, and the piano- 
maker to set it right again, I must say I had more 
pleasure than profit when I sold it. In fact it 
was only a matter of a few pounds. But then 
over a very good thing I often make no more than 
a couple of pounds. And, upon my word, I'd 
rather that than sell it to a rank outsider, who 
wouldn't know what he was buying. If I say 
to a customer who knows what's what, ' That 
table's tin pounds,' and he says, ' Hicks, send it 
to me to-morrow, and here's a cheque for eight,' 
'tis hard for me to hold out agin' him. I've got 
a kind of feelin' for furniture; I suppose it is I 
like me chairs to go where they will be kindly 
tr'ated and looked after. So I sint the tinklin' 
harpsichord to the Duke and he agreed with me 
it was a grand piece. And at the dinner-party a 
lady said to him, ' I see Hicks has sold you me 
cousin's piano that he's had stored away.' ' No,' 
said the Duke, ' I'm very sure Hicks wouldn't do a 
thing like that.' The lady said she knew the 
piano. The Duke explained it had not been in 
Hicks' possession for long, but she wais uncon- 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 105 

vinced. The Duke said nothin' to me — he was too 
much of a gintleman for that — but one of the 
guests said, ' Hicks, I heard an aspersion on your 
character the other evening,' and then she told me 
the conversation. God knows, after all these 
years, when nayther satinwood nor mahogany, nor 
the best ould imitation I iver made — an' some of 
thim's almost deceaved miself — have induced me 
to imperil my immortal soul, I was boiling mad. 
Maybe I'll deserve purgatory, but manny a dealer 
in ould stuff won't even have a look in at that 
place of purification, he'll go straight down, and 
stay there sittin' and roastin' and squirmin', on his 
red-hot bastard sofas and chairs. I wrote and 
asked the lady, who had been to the Duke's dinner, 
to come to the shop, and I showed her her cou- 
sin's piano, and the mahogany stand, which the 
two of them had forgot — I might have used it 
after all, it was a grand piece of wood — and I says, 
' Please tell your cousin to pay me the twenty- 
five shillin's ' — I showed her the book — ' and 
to send for the piano at the same time, I can't 
keep it any longer.' " 

"And did she send for it?" I asked. 

" Ah, sure, about a year after, it was hauled 
away." 

" And you got your twenty-five shillings, I 
hope? " 

"About that," said Hicks, "about that; maybe 



106 HERSELF— IRELAND 

it was but twinty. Where are those good chairs 
that another gintleman left with us seventeen 
years ago? Show them to Mrs. O'Connor," he 
called to Mrs. Hicks. 

" They're in our own house now," said Mrs. 
Hicks. 

" I'm hopin' he won't come for them," said 
Hicks. *'I've got to hke them." 

" In Texas," I said, " after a man's squatted on 
land for ten years, he gets a quit claim to it; 
seven years desertion and silence give a woman 
a divorce; I think there should be a law in Ire- 
land about the abandonment of pianos and chairs. 
When there is a ParUament on College Green, I'll 
propose a bill." 

" I'd rather have you a mimber than anny I 
know," said Hicks, gallantly, although I doubt if 
he beheves in Woman's Suffrage. 

Hicks is an artist in the making of furniture. 
The first thing that strikes the eye of the ordinary 
observer is, of course, line. But an expert cabinet- 
maker must have feeling, an appreciation for 
design, an unerring eye for the colour of the wood, 
both in the raw material and as a finished product. 
He must not, if he is copying eighteenth century 
furniture, add a hair's breadth to the inch. He 
must understand mathematical precision. The 
legs of a chair must approach the body as 
close as wax. The carving must be sharp and 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 107 

bold. The inlay so smooth, that the finger of 
a blind man passing over it is unable to detect 
flower or scroll. All his my friend Hicks can 
compass, and his copies of old furniture have 
often puzzled experts. The Duke recommended 
him to a gentleman who not only became a good 
client, but appreciated Hicks' unerring eye for 
genuine old pieces. Hicks was asked to his place 
in the country for the purpose of passing judg- 
ment on various treasures. When they came to the 
drawing-room and Hicks loitered near a beautiful 
French table, Sir Arthur jocosely said, " Don't 
take the trouble. Hicks, to fix your copying eye 
on that old table; it's beyond you. The green 
inlay was only done to perfection in the time of 
Marie Antoinette." 

" No, Sir," said Hicks, running his hand affec- 
tionately over the pale green ribands, set in 
golden satinwood, " I made this table." 

" Hicks, you're a liar! " 

" I may be," said Hicks ; " but not about this 
table. Sir. Thirty years ago a gintleman customer 
of mine, who only owned respectable furniture — 
by that I mean furniture that speaks for a man's 
taste, knowledge, and breeding — believe me. Sir, 
cabinets and chairs and tables can say a good deal 
for a man, as china and prints can speak for a 
woman, — came to me and said, ' Hicks, I want you 
to cross to London to-night and buy a table for 



108 HERSELF— IRELAND 

me that is to be sold in a few days at Christies'. 
It's a genuine bit of Louis XVI, and was at one 
time at Versailles, there's no doubt about that. 
But I can only go to a certain figure. Photo- 
graph it with your eyes, measure it with your 
hands, drink in the beautiful colour of it, so that, 
at least, I may have a reminder of the lost treas- 
ure, if I don't get it.' That table certainly was 
of the best, mellow in colour, lovely in hne, and 
inlaid by the hand of a great artist. I knew the 
moment I saw it, that I wouldn't be able to buy 
it, so I set about photographing it with my eyes, 
and luckily I knew one of the men at Christies'. 
He allowed me to measure and to sketch it. I was 
there as soon as the doors were open in the morn- 
ing, and I stayed until after the sale. The table 
fetched three times my price. Then I came back 
to Dublin, and set to work, and made four of 
these tables. One went to Germany, one to Lon- 
don, one to my client, and you have the other." 

" Well, I'm damned," said the owner. " Hicks, 
I gave a lot of money for that table, a fancy 
price, and bought it for the genuine thing. 
Are you sure this isn't a fairy story, you 
villain? " 

" Turn it up, Sir, and you'll find a httle scrawly 
* H ' in ebony, close to the right foreleg." 

"It's here. Hicks, that betraying ' H,'" Sir 
Arthur said, with the table turned upside down. 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 109 

" What a pity I didn't send for you before I 
bought it." 

" Yes, Sir, in one way it is ; but all the same, 
in my own defence, I will say that it's a mighty 
good table ; I never made a better ; the wood is old 
and mellow, the colour is soft and deep, the 
design is fine, the inlay is perfect, and the work is 
a credit to me, and to the men who did their share 
of it." 

" And," said Sir Arthur, " as the firm I bought 
it from have gone bankrupt, I must be satisfied 
with a good table and a good story, that's about 
it." 

" And it might have been worse, Sir. I've seen 
gintlemen done with a bad table, and no joke 
either," said Hicks. 

Hicks is very observant, and sympathetic 
enough to be an almost unerring judge of char- 
acter. A lady of England having bought various 
valuable pieces of furniture from him, said, "If 
you are ever in London, Mr. Hicks, come and 
see me, I may find something in my house for 
you to do." A day came when Hicks remem- 
bered her words and went to London — being a 
sportsman, he is always ready to take a fighting 
chance — but this time Fate seemed against 
him, for the butler said the lady had gone 
abroad. 

" Has she a sicretary? " asked Hicks. 



110 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" She has," said the butler, " and I'll ask him 
to see you." 

When Hicks repeated the conversation between 
the lady and himself the secretary said, " I have no 
authority to give you an order to do any work." 
But being already prepossessed in his favour, 
when Hicks asked to be shown over the house, the 
secretary opened the rooms to him. 

Hicks stopped long at the door of the drawing- 
room, tapped the walls, with his quick eye meas- 
ured them, and said, " This room must be 
panelled." 

"What!" said the startled secretary. 

" It cries out for panellin'," said Hicks. 

*' But I can't give you an order to panel it," 
said the secretary. 

" How long will the lady be away? " ques- 
tioned Hicks. 

" Two or three months." 

" Then I'll begin work to-morrow, an' if the 
lady likes the room and the price she can pay for 
it. If not I'll lose confidence in me pocket and 
me judgment. That's fair enough, isn't it? " 

*' Yes," said the secretary, who was a sportsman, 
too ; " but first write me a letter which absolves 
me from all responsibihty." 

" I'll do that," said Hicks, " an' we'll give her 
ladyship the pleasant surprise of her life." 

When introduced to the room, the lady was 



HICKS, A MAN WITHOUT PRICE 111 

first surprised, then delighted, then amused; and 
she paid the bill of three hundred pounds without 
a protest. And Hicks, with confidence in his 
judgment, his pocket, and his lucky star, re- 
turned to Ireland more than ever a Knight of 
Chance. 



CHAPTER VI 

OLD IRELAND, AND THE LITTLE WHITE 
FLOWER 

I AM not only grateful to my friend Hicks for 
a quite beautiful chest of drawers that he made 
for me, but it was he who brought to my notice 
the Georgian books. Those five valuable volumes, 
compiled under the auspices of the Georgian So- 
ciety, which contain the records of the noble 
eighteenth century architecture of celebrated 
houses in Dublin, and of historic country places 
throughout Ireland. Rev. J. P. Mahaffy, Pro- 
vost of Trinity College, who has contributed much 
appreciative work to these books, was kind enough 
to give me permission to use any of the beautiful 
illustrations. Unfortunately for my purpose, the 
plates have been destroyed. This is an advantage 
to the limited number of volumes which have been 
issued, making them each year increase in value; 
but it seems a pity not to have sealed up the 
plates and put them in some place of safety, 
for the benefit of future generations. Not only 
will these books give hours of delight to the idle 
person, who amuses himself with picture books, 

112 



OLD IRELAND 113 

but they are satisfying to lovers of architecture, 
full of suggestions to architects, and Pepys him- 
self, in his gossiping Diary, is not more piquant 
than a number of these records of the great 
houses, and the great people of Ireland's pros- 
perous past. 

Lady Caroline Dawson, afterwards Countess of 
Portarlington, in the autumn of 1778, writes to her 
sister, Lady Louisa Stewart, in a sprightly fashion 
of Carton, the family seat of the Duke of Leinster: 

" You will be surprised, when I tell you there 
are at present four generations in the house, the 
Duchess having her mother, and grandmother pay- 
ing her a visit, which with her children make up 
four; and the great-grandmother is a very good- 
looking woman, not older than most people's 
mothers, and the Duchess' mother. Lady. St. 
George, one would take to be fifteen. I must 
describe her to you because she is so remarkable. 
She has a very pretty little figure, with a face not 
handsome but well enough, and her dress in the 
afternoon is a polonaise trimmed with gauze; 
upon recollection I am telling you wrong, for it 
is a Circassian all over loops and tassels (like 
the one Mrs. Stewart brought from Paris last 
year), and a httle black Henri Quatre hat upon 
her head, with her hair dressed up to it behind. 
In the morning she wears an orange-coloured 
habit, embroidered or rather embossed with gold. 



114 HERSELF— IRELAND 

and a great rich gold stuff waistcoat, with broad 
laced ruffles, and a little white beaver hat with 
a bunch of white feathers upon the top, and a 
black stock, so that she looks the finest French 
figure you ever saw. Everything seems to go on 
in great state here. The Duchess appears in a 
sack, and hoop, and diamonds, at every meal, and 
such quantities of plate, etc., that one would 
imagine oneself in a palace; and there are servants 
without end. One morning they drove us all over 
the park, which is really fine, though all done 
by the Duke's father — therefore no wood of 
any growth — but there is a fine river with 
rocks, etc. 

"It is not the fashion at Carton to play at 
cards. The ladies sit and work, and the gentle- 
men lollop about, and go to sleep — at least the 
Duke does, for he snored so loud the other night 
that we all got into a great fit of laughing and 
waked him. They asked me if I liked cards, and 
I pretended I did, much more than I really do, 
for the sake of getting a card-table, for when 
there are a great many people sitting in that man- 
ner it's very tiresome, so I had a party at whist 
every night; but they seemed to think it very odd 
that a young woman should like cards. Yesterday 
before we set out, we went to church with them. 
They have a very comfortable gallery with a good 
fire. I forgot to mention to you the Duke's 



OLD IRELAND 115 

chaplain lives in the house with them, and reads 
prayers every morning, which all the ladies of 
the house attend very devoutly, but I can't say so 
much for the gentlemen. I think it a very proper 
custom in a large family, but then I think the 
master as well as the mistress should attend. Even 
though there is a great deal of state, I could not 
help admiring the great grown-up girls stealing 
an opportunity, when they thought the company 
did not mind them, to hug their father and mother, 
with an appearance of affection that did one 
good." 

This agreeable letter shows that young grand- 
mothers have existed in every century, and ap- 
parently Lady St. George, " looking fifteen," was 
quite equal to any of the present-day wonders. 
"A face not handsome but well enough," sug- 
gests what the French call " une jolie laide" I 
have never seen a Circassian " all over loops and 
tassels " but it sounds deliciously youthful and 
coquettish, and " a polonaise trimmed with gauze " 
is positively ravishing. The little lady in the morn- 
ing must have rivalled an aureole in her orange- 
coloured habit, embossed with gold, and " a great 
rich gold stuff waistcoat, with broad laced ruf- 
fles." I am sure the glossy white beaver hat, with 
a bunch of white feathers on the top, and a black 
stock, created havoc among the male sex, grand- 
mother as she was. The privacy of their " com- 



116 HERSELF— IRELAND 

fortable gallery with a good fire," must have been 
an inducement to church attendance if not to piety. 
Mr. Labouchere once told me that he had read all 
of Sir Walter Scott's novels in the softly cushioned 
gallery of a church, where his uncle, Lord Taunton, 
did not go himself, but sent his nephews for the 
good of their souls. And I hke the " great grown- 
up girls, the daughters of the Duke, stealing an 
opportunity of hugging their father and mother.'* 
It might have been the history of one of the warm- 
hearted aristocratic famihes of South Carolina or 
Louisiana, and the following paragraph is even 
more reminiscent of the South: 

*' The house is crowded — a thousand comes and 
goes. We have an immense table — chocolate — 
honey — hot bread — cold bread — brown bread — 
white bread — green bread," — was green bread rye, 
I wonder — " and all-coloured breads and cakes. 
After breakfast, Mr. Scott, the Duke's chaplain, 
reads a few short prayers, and then we go as 
we like — a back room for reading, a billiard- 
room, a printing-room, a drawing-room, and 
whole suites of rooms, not forgetting the music- 
room. 

" We dine at half -past four or five, courses 
upon courses, which I believe takes up two full 
hours. It is pretty late when we leave the par- 
lour; we then go to tea, so to cards about nine, 
play till supper-time — 'tis pretty late by the time 



OLD IRELAND 117 

we go to bed. I forgot to tell you the part you 
would like best — French horns playing at break- 
fast and dinner. There are all sorts or amuse- 
ments; the gentlemen are out hunting and shoot- 
ing all the mornings." 

Ireland, among all classes, and in all centuries, 
seems to have indulged in opulent and picturesque 
funerals. Four thousand pounds was spent upon 
the funeral of the first Lady Blessington. She 
died in Paris, and was brought back to Dublin by 
a whole retinue of mutes and mourners. The 
drawing-room in Blessington House had been con- 
verted into a ckapelle ardente. The walls were 
hung in purple silk, an altar was erected, upon 
it stood gilt candlesticks holding lighted wax 
candles, silver censers threw out clouds of in- 
cense, and in the centre of the room the magnifi- 
cent coffin was placed, draped in a black velvet 
pall, glittering with gold embroidery. The mourn- 
ers, six on either side, swathed in crepe with bands 
of white silk across their breasts, sat beside the 
coffin, and for eight days all of Dubhn poured in 
to view this spectacular exhibition. And as 
far back as 1786, the burial service of the Right 
Hon. Lord Colooney, son and heir of the 
Right Hon. the Earl of Bellamount, is thus 
described : 

" The remains lay in the saloon in the attick 
storey three days, said time being necessary to 



118 HERSELF— IRELAND 

give due notice to the gentlemen of the County, 
who had expressed their intention of showing their 
regard to the Earl and his family, by their at- 
tendance at the interment from the most distant 
parts. The saloon, which is supported by pillars 
and lighted by a cupola, was hung with a black 
cloth; as also the cupola, which was lighted with 
tapers, and constantly attended by upper ser- 
vants, appointed to succeed each other night and 
day. 

" On Wednesday, 10th inst., the remains were 
removed in the following order from Bellamount 
Forest, to the Earl's family vault in the parish 
church in the town of Cootehill, amidst the 
greatest concourse of spectators ever remembered 
in the County on any occasion, who all testified 
their concern and respect by the most solemn si- 
lence and strict regularity throughout the whole 
of the ceremony in which every affectation of 
extraordinary parade was avoided. (?) 

" The procession : 

Twelve conductors, two and two, with black cloaks, and 

white staves. 
Physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries, two and two. 
Clerk of the Parish. 

Clergy of the Church of England, two and two. 
Dissenting Clergy, two and two. 
Seceding Clergy, two and two. 
Moravian Clergy, two and two. 
Clergy of the Church of Rome, two and two. 




End of Saloon, with Organ, at Carton, the 
Family Seat of the Duke of Leinster 



OLD IRELAND 



119 





The Hearse 




drawn by six horses, with 


Three servants 


plumes, escutcheons 


in their full 
liveries, scarfs 


and streamers, carrying 


and hat-bands, 


the remains in a black 


uncovered. 


velvet coffin, enriched 




with proper 




emblems. 



Three servants 

in their full 

liveries, scarfs 

and bat-bands, 

uncovered. 



Bearers. 



Charles Stuart, Esq., one of 
the representatives of 

the County. 

Oliver Nugent, Esq. 

Thomas Nesbit, Esq. 

Member for the Borough of 

Cavan. 

Rev. Joseph Pratt. 



The High Sheriff. 

Robert Saunderson, Esq. 

Richard Anketell, Esq. 

Matthew Anketell, Esq. 

Late High Sheriff of 

the County. 

Richard Adams, Esq. 

John Moutray James, Esq. 



Principal Gentlemen of the County, two and two. 



Robert Mayne, Esq. 



Ralph Downes, Esq. 



The Gentlemen, Merchants, Traders, and others, com- 
prising the Earl's principal Tenantry, 
two and two. 



120 HERSELF— IRELAND 

A mourning coach and four horses, with two women 

servants in deep mourning, and white hoods. 

A mourning coach and four horses with two upper men 

servants, in deep mourning. 

" The final ceremony was performed by the Rev. 
Gustavus Hume, assisted by t*he Rev. Michael Lee, 
who waited for the remains at the Earl's family 
vault. The whole of the ceremony was conducted 
by Mr. Kirchoffer of Dublin, who had prepared 
the hearse, mourning coaches, and all other articles 
expressly for the occasion. The only article in 
which Mr. Kirchoffer failed was the number of 
scarves, which fell far short of the number of 
qualified persons and attendants." 

The fashion of wearing wide white linen scarves, 
instead of " lute string " scarves was in full favour 
at this time, and the fashion obtains more or less 
to the present day, for an Irish lady told me, 
that her mother kept her family supplied in pil- 
low-slips and toilet-covers, made from linen fu- 
neral bands. And I heard of one economically 
disposed young lady who fashioned a dress from a 
collection of scarves. A witty friend called it her 
"shroud," but, being a healthy-minded girl, free 
from superstition, and impervious to ridicule, she 
continued to wear it. 

I interspersed reading the Georgian books with 
Dublin newspapers and was much intrigued with 
these advertisements: 



OLD IRELAND 121 

In grateful thanksgiving to the Little Flower for many 
favours received. M.L. 

Thanksgiving to the Little Flower for request granted, 
publication promised. J.G. 

In triumphant thanksgiving to the Little Flower who 
saved my life at the battle of the Somme. J.M. 

To satisfy my curiosity I went into a bookshop 
and asked for a book called The Little Flower. 
The bookseller said he had only the story of 
The Springtime of a Little White Flower, and 
I bought the small book and read the history of 
Marie-Fran9oise-Therese Martin. 

She was born at Alencjons in France, in 1873, so 
if she had lived she would stiU be a young woman. 
Louis Martin, her father, in his early youth, had 
presented himself at the Monastery of the Great 
St. Bernard to become a priest. — I once spent 
two days at the Hospice; never will I forget that 
mountain honey, nor the beautiful young French- 
man, whom I saw admitted into the priesthood. 
Only the most zealous souls desire to serve in this 
lonely place, as the climate is so severe, they rarely 
live more than five years. The wise Priest of St. 
Bernard found that Louis Martin had no vocation 
for the priesthood, and he returned to France. 

Zelie Guerin had made an equally fruitless 
effort to be admitted amongst the Sisters of 
Charity. She was not only pious but pretty and 



122 HERSELF— IRELAND 

light-hearted, so the Mother Superior sent her into 
the world again. A kind fate brought these two 
young devout Catholics together, they loved each 
other — married — and Madame Martin became the 
mother of five daughters, who entered one or 
another of the convents of France. 

Therese was very like her mother, pretty, sweet, 
wonderfully appealing and attractive, and from 
babyhood she disclosed a most poetical nature, 
loving to gather garlands of wild flowers, delight- 
ing in magnificent sunsets and silvery moonlight, 
appreciating musical language, and revealing an 
exquisite spiritual nature. Beautiful, with an im- 
perious little manner, she was called by her own 
family "The Little Queen." Her mother died 
when she was four years old, and she was brought 
up by her father and her eldest sister. They 
were an extremely devout family, going to church 
every day, but Therese says with her proud and 
ardent nature the world might have attracted her 
if it had not been for her early surroundings, and 
the example of her saintly family. " The Soul of 
a Child," she says, " is like soft wax, upon which 
any impression, good or bad, can be made," which 
is only another variant of, " Give me a Child for 
seven years, and I will set my seal upon his 
future." 

With her exalted nature, and the imagination of 
a poet, it was natural that she should develop an 



OLD IRELAND 123 

early ambition to do great and noble deeds. She 
says in her Diary: 

" After reading the Life of Jesus of Nazareth, 
I too, was consumed with a desire for souls, and 
was eager to save them from eternal flames at any 
cost. Soon afterwards I heard of a great criminal, 
whose paralysed conscience had no fear of eternal 
damnation, being condemned to death for frightful 
crimes. I prayed, fasting and without cessation, for 
the hardness of his spirit to melt away, and the 
murderer had a sudden conversion, and repented. 
Since then my desire to save souls has grown 
stronger every day." 

Therese, with surprising wisdom, thought the 
best preparation for her spiritual life should con- 
sist in breaking her own will, in conquering her 
temper, and in being unselfish to her family. 
When she went to the Abbe Delator elle with the 
request to become a nun, a lovely child of fifteen, 
with shining hair and eyes, and a fairylike beauty 
of form, he gave a decided no to her extraordinary 
request; but he did not count on her gentle but 
firm persistence. She persuaded her father to take 
her to Rome, where she hoped to gain the consent 
of the Pope. Leo XIII was much touched with 
the holy desire of this wonderful young girl, who 
wished permission at once to enter Carmel, but 
refused to make an immediate decision, and she 
returned to Lisieux bitterly disappointed. In a 



124 HERSELF— IRELAND 

few months, however, the earnestly sought per- 
mission was granted, and Therese received the 
habit of a nun on the 10th of January. 

She describes her spiritual life with great ardour 
and simplicity, speaks with frankness of *' the 
aridity of her soul," but that passed. She never 
regretted the world, not even " the delight of ram- 
bling through the meadows enamelled with the 
treasures of spring." For nine years Therese 
was a devout and inspiring little nun; even the 
hohest of the Sisters considered her a saint. Her 
life was directed by those most beautiful words, so 
often forgotten, " A new commandment give I 
unto you, that ye love one another; as I have 
loved you." How any very young woman could 
have been so instinctively wise is a mystery, except 
that genius takes the place of experience, and 
Therese had genius for spirituality. She was 
only twenty-four when she died. Death came to 
her at the threshold of womanhood. 

In her Diary she says: 

" It has ever been my desire to become a saint, 
but, alas, I have always realised that when I com- 
pare myself to a saint, there exists the same differ- 
ence as in Nature between a mountain whose 
summit is lost in the clouds, and the obscure 
grain of sand trampled under foot by the 
passerby." 

Almost at the end of her Diary she writes: 



OLD IRELAND 125 

" I feel that a change is coming, my mission on 
earth is soon to begin. I will ask to spend my 
heaven in doing good upon earth. Thus after my 
death I will let fall a shower of roses." 

How did so sinless a creature have such a 
realisation of sin, how did she know the crying 
need we have on earth of invisible angels to guide 
our wayward footsteps? 

The devotees of Therese are satisfied that since 
her death she has been busy working on this 
planet. Her modesty was great, she always in- 
sisted that she was humble and unknown; for this 
reason probably, it occurred to one who had re- 
ceived her favours, that only by publicity could 
her fame go abroad, and help those who desired 
her intercession, and thus began these strange, 
touching, and pathetic little advertisements. 

Among the many humble acknowledgments of 
her help, a lady writes that in June, 1911, her 
little New Forest pony had an apparently fatal 
attack of pneumonia. The groom and veterinary 
surgeon had been up all night with him. In the 
morning he was worse, at midday the groom called 
her to see the struggling animal, who trembling 
and quivering, was hoarsely gasping for breath, 
while his head hung low, indicating collapse. The 
lady, with tears running down her face, spoke to 
him tenderly, and he turned his piteous and terror- 
stricken eyes to her, but could not lift his droop- 



126 HERSELF—IRELAND 

ing head. The groom said he had neither eaten 
nor drunken anything for twenty-four hours, his 
strength was going, and if his legs gave way, he 
would lie down and die. His mistress told him 
to make haste to the veterinary surgeon, and ask 
for strong straps to support the pony's body 
from the top of the stall. The groom ran off, and 
the lady went outside to her two little daughters, 
and called to them: 

" Prince is dying. Pray, pray, quickly to the 
Little Flower, and ask her to save your poor little 
friend!" 

On going back to the stall she lifted the pony's 
head to her shoulder and said, " Don't give up, old 
boy, you are not dead yet," and she too begged 
the Little Flower to save the suffering animal. 
Suddenly he raised his head from her shoulder 
and slowly walked two or three paces. 

The lady called to her little girl, " Eleanor, 
Prince is better; bring him a bit of sugar." 

There was some ground barley in his box and 
a pail of water near by; before the little girl had 
time to return with the sugar, he had taken a 
long drink and had begun to munch his food. 
When the veterinary surgeon and the groom ar- 
rived with big leather belts, they were amazed at 
the animal's miraculous recovery. 

The Little Flower's pony is still alive, merry 
and healthy, running about the lawn, with the 



OLD IRELAND 127 

halter about his neck woven of flowers, and happy 
children riding on his back. Perhaps one day his 
patron saint will be known as the friend who will 
plead for all dumb creatures who cannot plead 
for themselves. 

But from the roar of the guns comes the tender- 
est of all the stories about the beloved friend of 
Ireland. 

One eventide, a doctor walking over the battle- 
field was surprised to find many of the soldiers 
holding little white flowers in their hands. And 
he saw a young nun stooping over the dead. 
When he spoke to her she lifted a lovely face, 
and smiled but made no answer. He related the 
incident to the Mother Superior of the hospital; 
she said none of her sisters were out at that hour, 
and as the doctor insisted he could not have been 
mistaken, she called the nuns together, and asked 
him if he recognised among them the sister whom 
he had seen on the battlefield. 

He said, " No, she is not here, but that is her 
picture on the wall." 

It was a portrait of the Little Flower. 

And that is how I like best to imagine her. 
On the dreadful field of battle, where mothers and 
sisters and wives may not go, bending tenderly 
over their solitary dead, and gently touching their 
hands, as she fills them with the shining white 
flowers of Paradise. 



CHAPTER VII 

IRISH WIT 

" Come now, Pat," said a facetious bounder, " tell me the biggest 
lie you ever told and I'll give you this glass of whiskey." 
" Begorra, your honour's a perfect gintleman." 

There is no Irish type, any more than there is 
an American type, or an English type, but there 
is Irish wit and character. It is almost unneces- 
sary to say the people as a race are modest and 
chaste. Statistics prove that a much smaller num- 
ber of illegitimate children are born in Ireland 
than in any part of the United Kingdom. And 
the Irish are not greedy about either money pos- 
sessions or food. Mr. Dooley has said that the 
difference between a hungry Irishman and a hun- 
gry Englishman is, that the hungry Irishman 
dreams of a feast of the gods, with himself in one 
of the front seats drinking mead and honey out 
of golden goblets. But the hungry Englishman 
is thinking, " If I only had that fine piece of 
steaming hot tripe out of the cookshop round the 
corner." And there is something to be said in 
favour of the Englishman, for the tripe is obtain- 
able, while the golden goblet and the mead are 
only visions. 

128 



IRISH WIT 129 

The minds of the Irish have a spiritual quality 
which you can see in their clear, thoughtful eyes. 

An Irish girl in London was visiting me, and 
I said to a friend, a Dutchman, with only a 
limited vocabulary of English, " Hasn't Charlotte 
lovely eyes? " 

" Yes," he said ; " dere is something in." 

I know women of different nationalities with 
bright, handsome eyes, but they are just eyes 
" there is nothing in," while Irish eyes speak of 
beautiful aspirations, contemplations, tendernesses, 
sorrows, dreams, and visions. You look and look, 
and they reveal much, but not everything; there is 
something always of mystery and reserve, of mer- 
riment and pathos, which is yet unfathomed. 
Form and features can be exquisite in modelhng 
and colour, but nothing is so entirely fascinating 
as the play of expression upon mobile features, in 
other words, the revelation of the human soul. 
How well Re jane understands this. She is not in 
the least a pretty woman, her features are irregu- 
lar, her face is too short, and her figure is not 
especially good, but she does not hesitate to sur- 
round herself with actresses of exceeding beauty. 
When she is on the stage they are forgotten ; every 
one is entranced by her little plain face, for upon 
it you see revealed the soul, heart, and mind of the 
woman whose story she portrays. Her changing 
thought, her varying mood, her every emotion. 



130 HERSELF— IRELAND 

The reposeful beauties in their exquisite French 
clothes, come and go unnoticed, even the men in 
the audience are engrossed in watching the sun- 
shine or shadow on that queer little visage. 

I said to an Irishman, " You are a very aston- 
ishing people, there are so many unexpected de- 
velopments in your character." 

" To ourselves," he said, " they are unexpected 
too. We do not surprise strangers any more than 
we astonish ourselves. We never know what 
depths, or heights, or desperations are slumbering 
within us until they are called forth by an unex- 
pected turn of Fate." 

Mr. Parnell was considered cold and reserved, 
but in reality the frigidity of his exterior covered 
fiery emotions; and he had not only the power of 
a noble desperation himself, but he could tempo- 
rarily impress it upon the most cautious of his 
followers. The men about him did not stop to 
analyse his force; they simply felt it, absorbed it, 
and yielded to it. In Ireland the outward and 
visible man is by no means the sign of an inward 
and spiritual grace. You will see a red-faced, 
bright-eyed, white-whiskered personage dressed in 
a heavy check suit, looking like a well-to-do rac- 
ing character. You ask who he is, and are told 
he is a serious-minded barrister and K.C., with 
no sporting proclivities, who amuses himself by an 
idiosyncracy of costume. You meet another man, 



IRISH WIT 131 

tall, thin, pale, kind and gentle, with grey, spiritual 
eyes and a soothing, pleasant voice. You ask who 
he is, and are astonished to learn that he has been 
a noted Fenian, and yet there is nothing about 
him to suggest either daring courage or mad 
chance. I said to a man of gentle manner, child- 
like blue eyes, and a soft voice, " Were you pleased 
to have General Maxwell leave Ireland? " " Yes," 
he said, " it was nicessary for his own good." 
"What do you mean by that?" I said. He an- 
swered as frankly and simply as a child, "If he 
had stayed he would have been shot." I laughed 
aloud. "You don't mean it?" "Yes," he said 
with a gentle sigh, " it was nicessary." 

And who would suspect Professor MacNeill, 
a contemplative scholar, one of the five men in 
Ireland who understands Middle Irish — ^the almost 
impossible language and literature of the eleventh 
century — with being implicated in what led to the 
wildest and most hopeless rebellion that Ireland 
has ever suffered. Her children are too natural, 
and, perhaps, too many-sided to stage their parts. 
In England or America a statesman or sports- 
man dresses to his profession. A United States 
Senator feels it incumbent on him not only to 
clothe himself as a grave and reverend body, but 
to adopt a certain sort of portentous five-syllabled 
manner that harmonises with an important frock- 
coat and a black tie. These surprises are what 



132 HERSELF— IRELAND 

make the Irish people so interesting, for here a 
serious coat and black necktie might very well 
clothe the wittiest, the most light-hearted, and the 
gayest character. Take, for example. Father 
Healy. He wore the garb of a priest, lived not 
only a holy and self -sacrificing hfe, but was really 
an ascetic giving himself very few corporeal in- 
dulgences; and yet there was never a gayer spirit, 
or wittier tongue than his. Dr. Mahaffy, the 
Provost of Trinity College, a wit himself, and a 
judge of wit, said one of the most beautiful things 
of Father Healy that has ever been said of living 
man: " He was never at a loss for a kindly word, 
to meet him in the street was always Uke pass- 
ing from shade into sunshine." How few there 
are — no matter how widely travelled or how 
large our circle of friends — who can say, " I have 
a sunshine friend." And in the British Isles, 
where the sun shines so little, to be sure that every 
time you meet a man, no matter how grey the day 
or lowering the sky you pass from shadow to 
sunshine, makes him blessed, aye, thrice blessed, 
among his fellows. 

I never knew Father Healy, but Mr. La- 
bouchere told me a great deal about him, and he 
not only revelled in his wit, but he greatly admired 
the simplicity, naturalness, and instinctive refine- 
ment of this gentle parish priest. In spite of 
going to the Viceroy's big parties, with the only 



IRISH WIT 133 

addition to his toilet a pair of freshly blacked 
shoes, he was nevertheless a true gentleman, for 
inside, he was as fine as silk. Mr. Labouchere 
was a wit, as all the world knows, and a very 
natural and spontaneous one, but, unlike Father 
Healy, he spared nobody; neither himself, nor his 
friends, nor his family, if through them he could 
contribute to the gaiety of nations. 

One night he was in a particularly debonair and 
mahcious mood, and we were indulging in frank 
personalities, when I said, *' Do you know that 
you look like a Jew? " 

" Why not, why not? " his eyebrows going up 
and his eyes dancing with mischief; " I remember 
when I was an attache of the British Legation in 
Vienna, walking one day on the Kolowrat Ring, 
I met a very distinguished and patriarchal old 
Jew. He beamed on me and said, ' Is this Henry 
Labouchere?' I said, 'It is.' * Let me shake 
you by the hand.' Looking at me most affection- 
ately, he gave my hand an enveloping grip. 
' When I went to London as a very young man to 
learn English, I spent every afternoon in the salon 
of your dear and beautiful grandmother. Let me 
shake you by the other hand.' And with that al- 
most double embrace, it was suddenly borne upon 
me that I was shaking hands with — my grand- 
father!" 

I am sure until I told Labby that he looked 



134 HERSELF— IRELAND 

like a Jew, the patriarch had been non-existent, 
and was created on the spur of the moment for my 
delectation. He said I was his best audience, and 
always made him confident that his most insipid 
joke contained savour. 

Father Healy, after a terribly racking day, be- 
ginning with Mass at seven o'clock, a morning's 
sick calls up and down rickety staircases, from 
attic to cellar, and a very worrying afternoon, 
came home jaded and tired, threw himself in a 
chair and groaned audibly. 

An old charwoman, who was polishing the grate, 
looked up and said, " What is the matter with you 
at all? " 

" I believe I am in love," he said. 

She answered, " Troth, and I wouldn't put it 
apast ye," and continued her polishing. 

A joke of this kind was particularly amusing, 
as it formed a direct contrast to the common- 
sense reality of Father Healy's pure life; and yet 
he could, and did sometimes, pay a pretty com- 
pliment. 

One day he met two young ladies, the Countess 
of Wicklow and a friend, going up a steep hill, 
making vain efforts to urge on a reluctant donkey 
harnessed to a little phaeton. 

" Oh, Father Healy, we are so glad to see you. 
What shall we do to make this beast move? " 

"Go before him," said the Padre; "and he is 



IRISH WIT 135 

a bigger donkey than I take him to be, if he 
doesn't follow you." 

An intellectual Peer in England was giving a 
large house-party, and wrote to Father Healy in- 
viting him to be one of the guests. Miss Bryce, 
a very pretty girl, hearing of the invitation said, 

" Oh, Father Healy, I wish you could take me 
in your pocket." 

"It is not in my pocket, but as a feather in my 
cap you should come," he replied. Which is as 
neat as Oscar Wilde's answer to the Customs 
House officer in New York, who asked impor- 
tantly, " What have you to declare, Mr. Wilde? " 

" Nothing — except — my genius," he answered. 

That so much ana exists about Father Healy's 
wit shows how constant it was, for wit is an 
evanescent quantity, born of the moment, and 
quick to take flight from the most retentive 
memory. Frederic Norton, the musical com- 
poser, is perhaps, the wittiest man I know; he has 
more than once made me laugh until I cried at the 
description of some amusing experience, but at the 
moment I can only recall a story of his childhood. 

When he was five, and his little sister Emily 
six years of age, they were awakened in the night 
by a loud noise on the landing. Frederic was 
frightened, but Emmie more courageously opened 
the door, and went out to see what had happened. 
Not daring to move, he called to her, " Em, if 



136 HERSELF— IRELAND 

that's a burglar bring him to me." Even at that 
early age his mind was capable of subtleties. 

And only two or three stories remain in my 
memory of my eldest aunt, who was very witty. 
A pretty cousin was telling one day with smiles 
and no blushes, of a young man's devotion, and 
Aunt Betty said, " Molly, you're a fool, but you're 
not a born fool; you're a made fool — by men." 

In the early days of Texas, in the primitive 
houses, instead of plaster, canvas was nailed on the 
light wooden partitions, and it was possible to hear 
every word of conversation from one room to the 
other. My Aunt Betty, sitting sewing, heard my 
father, who was desperately in love with my 
mother, ask her to marry him. When she refused 
there was a silence, a suppressed groan, and as he 
rose from his chair he said, " Madam, to-morrow 
morning you will find my body in the Colorado." 
With this heart-broken threat he retired to his 
room. The next morning Aunt Betty, always an 
early riser, met him coming back, fresh and hand- 
some, from the bath-house. " Good-morning, 
Judge," she said, "I am surprised to see you; I 
thought you were in the Colorado." But the sec- 
ond or third time that my father proposed to my 
mother, she must have accepted him, for here am I 
to tell the tale. 

Father Healy asked a friend, " Have you seen 
McCarthy lately? " 



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P 

o 

o 



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IRISH WIT 137 

" No," he said ; " he is pulling the devil by the 
tail." 

" Ah," said Father Healy, " there are a great 
many doing that; the devil must have a very 
strong tail." 

Father Healy was once comparing notes with 
the Rev. Dr. O'Fay about a recent journey 
which they had both made to France. 

" Of course you were au fait at the lingo," said 
Dr. O'Fay. 

" No ; I was only O'Healy at it," answered 
Father Healy. 

The wit of other people amused Father Healy 
quite as much as his own. He once heard two 
men preparing for a fight. " Come on," said the 
smaller of the two; "come on. I never saw a 
broth that was too hot for me, or the mait that was 
too fat for me." 

One day he was with Dr. Kenrick, who missed 
his hat from the hall. They went into Plunket 
Street, a famous market for old clothes, and found 
a woman in the act of selling it. 

" I only wanted it as a relic of your River- 
ence," she said. 

" You seemed very anxious to get rid of it," 
said Dr. Kenrick. 

" I was merely asking the value of it," said the 
quick-witted crone. Her answer much delighted 
Father Healy. 



138 HERSELF— IRELAND 

When he was a boy, he saw a large pig squeez- 
ing himself through a narrow gate. " Look," he 
said to his father, " at Bacon's Essays." 

When he went to school at Castleknock, a very 
holy Father catechising a sailor's son said, " What 
is cursing? " 

" Wishing ill to one's neighbour." 

" Can you give me a more comprehensive defini- 
tion, my child? " 

" Damn your eyes, holy Father." 

Dr. Murray, a great preacher and a friend of 
Father Healy, was preaching at Clones. The 
chapel was packed to the door. Nearing the close 
of the sermon he said, " One word more, and I 
am done." 

"Oh, my darlint! " exclaimed an old woman, 
throwing up her hands ; " that you may never be 
done." 

These stories were amongst Father Healy's 
varied repertoire, but his own continual quickness 
of wit was like a stream that never runs dry. 
Florence MacCarthy, a poet, said to Father Healy 
he was going to the ancient territory of Desmond 
for a grand celebration. 

" All the MacCarthys will attend, including the 
MacCarthy More." 

" If all the MacCarthys attend, there cannot 
be a MacCarthy more," said Father Healy. 
One evening Father Healy was going to dine 



IRISH WIT 139 

with Dr. Lee. He was a trifle late, and some one 
said, " Father Healy is making his toilet." " Oh," 
said Dr. Lee, " when Father Healy's hands are 
washed his toilet is made." Immediately after- 
wards the lively curate entered the room, and when 
the remark was repeated to him. Dr. Lee tried to 
disclaim it. " Oh, don't deny it, don't deny it," 
said Father Healy gaily ; " it is the best thing 
that you have ever said." 

He was very popular for sick calls, and I do not 
wonder at this, for his gay presence must have 
been worth many bottles of physic. 

A messenger came one day to beg him to hurry, 
as a man near Bray had been shot, " when he was 
fiddlin' with a gun it went off grazin' his toes, and 
carry in' away his shoe." 

" Don't tell me," said Father Healy, *' that it is 
a case of shoeaside." 

He was equally popular in the confessional, but 
even there he could not eradicate his sense of hu- 
mour. A little girl at a convent in Bray, making 
her confession was in anguish; her words were ut- 
tered in gasps, and with difficulty she implied that 
she had called one of God's Anointed by a dis- 
respectful nickname. 

"If you mean me, my child, you are at full lib- 
erty to call me anything you like, from a donkey 
to an elephant," said her spiritual adviser. 

An Irish friend told me that when she was a 



140 HERSELF— IRELAND 

little girl, she went to confession, and the priest, 
at the end of a long afternoon, sat with his eyes 
closed and asked rather wearily, " Well, my child, 
which one of the commandments have you 
broken? " Thinking to make herself important, 
she answered, " All of them. Father." And at 
once he was wide awake, with much admonition 
at his disposal, particularly that which related to 
exaggeration. How Father Healy would have 
enjoyed this unexpected confession. 

Sir William Wilde was well known to be very 
slovenly in his person. Judge Barry, dining with 
Father Healy shortly after Sir William had been 
knighted said, " I left Holyhead in a gale, and 

came across the dirtiest night " " It must 

have been Wilde," said Father Healy. 

A man was describing the horrors of electro- 
cution to Father Healy. " I only know one 
thing more terrible," said Father Healy; 
" elocution." 

A popular doctor from Dublin made him a visit 
at Bray. Father Healy gave him a rod, and sent 
him to fish in the River Dargle. 

The doctor returned at the end of the day and 
said, " I have killed nothing except time." 

" That is more than you could say if you were 
at home," said Father Healy. 

One evening he met at dinner a famous com- 
poser whose name he had forgotten; shaking his 



IRISH WIT 141 

hand he softly sang the tune of one of the mu- 
sician's best-known works. The artist was deeply 
gratified, and never found out that it was only his 
music that remained in the good priest's memory. 

Even in America we have lively wit ; very often, 
as in the case of Daisy Gummery, it is due to 
Irish ancestors. The wife of one of the Professors 
of Princeton was giving an afternoon party. 
She introduced a tall German to Mrs. Barker 
Gummery. His name to her meant nothing. To 
him it was the pivot of the world, for he was the 
leader of various important orchestras, and a com- 
poser of some eminence. Daisy's impression was 
that her hostess had murmured, " Herr Stenke," 
so in open-hearted American fashion, she began 
her introductions, " Professor and Mrs. Meredith 
— Herr Stenke; Professor Whiteside — Herr 
Stenke; Mrs. Miller — Herr Stenke," but each 
moment the glowering German's visage became 
more sour and resentful. Finally, he lifted his 
strong Teuton fist, and beating upon his breast, 
in an increasing crescendo said, " Stengleburg! 
Stengleburg!! Stengleburg!!!" At the third 
beat, Daisy looked up and asked with reproach- 
ful sweetness, "Not the great Stengleburg!" 
" Ze zame — ze zame," he said belligerently. Not 
even Father Healy could have done better than 
that. 

When living at Bray, Father Healy had for a 



142 HERSELF— IRELAND 

parishoner a wonderful old lady, Mrs. Dease, who 
lived to be ninety or more. She had a strong char- 
acter, strong opinions, and a strong grey beard. 
Father Healy sometimes read aloud to her. He 
had a beautiful voice, fine elocution, and he was 
reading the pathetic pages of Sterne. " God tem- 
pers the wind to the shorn lamb," made the old 
lady momentarily tender, he hesitated when he 
came to an oath, but as he read further it was 
merged in that beautiful well-known little pas- 
sage, " The accusing Spirit which flew up to 
Heaven's Chancery with the oath blushed as he 
gave it in, and the Recording Angel as he wrote 
it down dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted 
it out for ever." Presently he stopped short and 
cleared his throat. 

" What is the hitch about? " said Mrs. Dease, 
pulling off her spectacles. 

" It was getting a little broad, Madam," re- 
plied the Priest. 

" Oh, well, we're not so narrow ourselves ; go 
on," she said. 

She was at this time between eighty and ninety 
years of age, and still attracted her friends by 
her caustic wit. 

One day, on his arrival for an almost daily visit. 
Father Healy said, " There is an old woman at the 
door, Ma'am, soliciting alms." 

" What do you call an old woman? " asked Mrs. 



IRISH WIT 143 

Dease in a sharp voice, anticipating perhaps that 
Father Healy would say sixty or seventy. 

" One about a hundred and fifty, I should say." 

The old lady was charmed with the prospect of 
increased longevity and gave Father Healy a 
hearty handshake. On another occasion to encour- 
age her he said old Parr had lived to a hundred 
and two years. Old Mrs. Dease said with a shrill 
laugh, that she was very much below par. 

At a clerical gathering at Ballybrack a party 
of priests were discussing verse 14 of Psahn cxiii,, 
" They have ears and they do not hear, they have 
noses and they do not smell." Two priests came 
from the end of the room and asked what their 
confreres had been saying. " That you have 
large noses, and do not hear," replied Father 
Healy. Even though the priests had large noses, 
they, with the others, laughed good-humouredly. 

Father Healy was no pohtician, and whatever 
his political views, he kept them to himself. One 
evening a priest of decided opinions was discuss- 
ing with him the question of tenant rights, and 
began to interrogate Father Healy who, with the 
gravest face, made ridiculous answers. 

Finally the priest said, impatiently, " What are 
your politics ? " 

" I am of my Bishop's politics," gently an- 
swered Father Healy, puffing away at his cigar. 

" And what are your Bishop's politics? " 



144 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" I do not know," said Father Healy, more 
gently still; "I have never asked him." 

Another time Dean Quirke, a fine old bluff 
priest, and a very advanced politician, called to 
see Father Healy. 

"How goes the Landleague, Dean?" Father 
Healy asked. 

" Latterly I leave politics to my curate," dis- 
creetly rephed the Dean. 

" Quite right. Dean, it would never do for you 
or me at our time of life, and in this moist climate, 
to stay for hours on the bank of a ditch with a gun 
in hand watching for a landlord." 

Father Healy's friend, Charles Meehan, a won- 
derful scholar and a very gifted writer, possessed 
a sardonic wit, which was quite different from 
Father Healy's sunny-tempered sallies. They 
made a trip together in France. Father Meehan 
suffered terribly from indigestion, and one day 
without any farewell suddenly disappeared. Next 
morning Father Healy received a curt note ask- 
ing for his razor. Father Healy answered, " Dear 
Meehan, I return the razor; if you should be 
disposed to commit suicide, I advise you to get 
it ground first." It was years before Meehan 
forgave the razor episode. Finally Father Healy 
wrote, " Life is too short for this sort of thing, let 
us dismiss such folly, come and dine to-morrow." 
There was never another breach in their friendship 



IRISH WIT 145 

after that. An auctioneer when dying, left Mee- 
han a small legacy, who announced it exultingly to 
Father Healy. 

" He left you that twenty pounds to prevent 
you from cursing his memory," said Father 
Healy. 

One day when Father Healy called on Father 
Meehan, the pain of rheumatism in the latter's 
feet made him more than ordinarily cutting in his 
remarks on all his friends. 

Finally, Father Healy said, *' Meehan, I am 
sorry to see you have got the foot-and-mouth 
disease." 

Father Healy had no fear of Meehan in spite 
of his bitter tongue. Bishop Moran, a school- 
fellow of theirs, had been living in New Zealand. 
On his return the three friends met and were dis- 
cussing a former student of Castleknock, at that 
time an excellent priest. Father Meehan said, 
"Did you ever see such a face as his? Even in 
Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors you could 
not find one of worse expression, and I am sure 
it is only the grace of God that has kept that man 
from crime." The Bishop changed the conver- 
sation and began to describe his life, mentioning 
the fact that the natives gave great honour to 
reptiles, and the more venomous they were the 
more they worshipped them. 

" That is the diocese for you, Meehan," smiled 



146 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Father Healy ; " if you were to migrate there you 
would be hailed as a Deity." 

It was said after this pointed rebuke that 
Father Meehan became milder in his conver- 
sation. 

One evening Father Healy talking to him about 
a witty priest who had died, said, " What a pity 
that many of the good things Kenyon said are 
not preserved." 

Father Meehan said, " They are preserved, by 
me." 

" In manuscript? " 

" Yes, in manuscript." 

" Then," said Father Healy, " my name must 
often be in it." 

Father Meehan said laconically, " Very likely." 

Father Healy asked, " When do you mean to 
have it published? " 

" Oh, who knows? Perhaps when I am in 
Heaven," replied Meehan. 

" Then," said Father Healy, " if readers are to 
wait for that, you may write about me whatever 
you like." 

Meehan, in spite of indigestion, and a very 
churhsh temper, preserved a very youthful aspect. 
One day he said laughingly to Father Healy, 
" Time has writ no wrinkles on my brow." 

" Possibly," answered Father Healy, " but he 
has played the very deuce with your neck," point- 



IRISH WIT 147 

ing to the withered skin of Father Meehan's thin 
throat. 

When his last ilhiess came, Father Healy asked 
him if he had seen a priest. 

"Yes," he said; "Father S.— a good fellow, 
but a great ass." 

Father Healy asked him if he had any message 
for the Bishop. 

" Yes ; you might tell him I am dying, and he 
will be very glad to hear it. I am quite resigned," 
he added, " and have made my will." 

Father Healy said gaily, " Have you left me 
anything? " 

" The deuce a farthing," Father Meehan an- 
swered vehemently, and then he began to mur- 
mur, " Jesus have mercy upon me, Jesus have 
mercy upon me," and he whispered those unfor- 
gettable lines of his own beautiful translation of 
the last words of Copernicus: 

" Not the grace Thou gavest Paul, 
Who saw Thy Stephen stoned ; 
Not the grace that Peter won 
When blinding tears his crime aton'd 
But, ah, dear Saviour, give to me 
The grace which Thou on Calvary 
Didst give the thief who at Thy side 
Repenting hung, repenting died." 

Father Healy was sincerely grieved at the death 
of Father Meehan, and brushed a tear from his 



148 HERSELF— IRELAND 

rough cheek, " which," he afterwards said, " was 
the only thing that had been brushed in the room 
for years." 

One day, Father Healy was caUing upon a 
priest in the country, who although an Irishman, 
had no sense of humour and was quite literal. 
As they were going over his farm he pointed to a 
heifer and said, " This is what we call a yearling, 
although it is two years old." 

"That is a bull," said Father Healy. 

" Oh, no," said the priest, " the bull is in the 
paddock." 

A hypochondriacal priest in the country, stay- 
ing at Bray, was walking along the beach with 
Father Healy. 

" I have really got relief from drinking a tum- 
bler of salt water fresh from the tide. Do you 
think I might venture to take a second? " he 
asked. 

Father Healy looked at the long rolling waves, 
and said, " Well, I don't think a second would be 
missed." 

" I cannot conceive how Jonah could have lived 
in the stomach of a whale," a student of natural 
history said to Father Healy. 

" Oh, that is nothing," he answered, " I saw Dr. 
Meldon to-day, coming out of a fly." 

A Protestant gentleman once said to him, " You 



IRISH WIT 149 

know, Father Healy, our church is founded on a 
rock." 

" Yes," said Father Healy quickly, " a blasted 
rock." 

Father Healy, like all wits, had a horror of 
monologue, which alas is one of the popular recre- 
ations of my country. A brilliant Englishman who 
travelled in America, said to me, " Do you know 
there is no such thing as conversation in your 
country; they indulge instead in a series of mono- 
logues. One man takes the floor and talks for 
ten minutes; he then yields it to another, and 
so they proceed; but there is no give and take 
as we have it in England." And I am obliged to 
acknowledge that this accusation against us is more 
or less true. Long-windedness is certainly a char- 
acteristic of my country, and bores are to be found 
galore. I have come to the conclusion that democ- 
racy must produce bores. We are all free and 
equal, the people in America are mostly polite, 
kind-hearted, and endowed with fortitude; so we 
have formed a habit of listening to bores with 
exceeding patience, whereas in England they 
would be ruthlessly squelched. 

I remember years ago in London being on 
the point of leaving a large gathering, when I was 
stopped by an eminent American statesman, who 
began our conversation with an anecdote of 1863, 
and ambled through the intervening years until 



150 HERSELF— IRELAND 

we arrived at 1905. When I reached the bottom 
of the stairs, where a member of my family had 
been waiting since 1863, I never saw a man in 
a more towering rage. Human nature is ahke all 
over the world, and there are in Ireland monolo- 
gists as well as in America. 

I went away once with a very dear Irish 
friend, and she talked to me for a week. Being 
her guest, I felt obliged to listen. We had charm- 
ing apartments at the Beacon Hotel, Hind Head, 
a sitting-room and two bedrooms. At nine o'clock 
in the morning over our coffee she began and 
talked until twelve, then I had my bath and 
dressed myself for lunch. After a short walk, 
when she talked again, we lunched. We after- 
wards had a drive, and she talked until tea. She 
talked all through tea, and then until we dressed 
for dinner. When that meal was finished, she 
began quite fresh and talked uninterruptedly until 
eleven o'clock. On the seventh day I collapsed. 
The doctor had to be sent for, and he said I was 
suffering from symptoms of congestion of the 
brain; ordered mustard for the soles of my feet, 
the back of my neck, and perfect quiet for days 
to come. And I will never forget the blessed 
solitude and peace that followed. I can talk my- 
self, and like to talk, and like to hear other peo- 
ple talk, but I must have spaces of silence; my 
powers of endurance are not limitless. 



IRISH WIT 151 

Canon Pope was a talker of great endurance. 
At one of Father Healy's famous dinners, when 
flashes of wit had been playing across the table 
there was a pause, and Canon Pope said: 

" Language is one of the most interesting 
studies; it may be arranged in distinguishing 
classes of families, and the relationship existing 
between the members is obvious," and thus he 
ambled on for five minutes. . . . " Thus the 
Indian Gothic family sends forth its dialectic 
children in the Armenian, Zend, Lithuanian, 
Sclavonian, Teuton, Sanscrit, and Celtic. Pri- 
mary dialects are divided into respective dialects. 
The brogue of Tipperary is an incipient dialect, 
where by lengthening the vowels " 

" Oh, Canon ! " said Father Healy, who had 
been watching for an opportunity to interrupt this 
ponderous monologue; "Tipperary is hardly the 
place to lengthen your vowels, for there they think 
nothing of knocking your two eyes into one." 

Mrs. Bischoffsheim asked him his opinion of 
Lord X. 

" A charming fellow," said Father Healy, 
" with plenty of the small change of social con- 
versation, but I never yet found a sovereign or 
five-pound note on the platter." 

What an exact impression this gives one of con- 
ventional amiability. 

But even Father Healy's wit alone, constant 



152 HERSELF— IRELAND 

bubbling fountain that it was, could not have 
given him, a humble parish priest with an income 
of not more than two hundred pounds a year, the 
great social position in the world that he had, 
without a wonderful personality to aid him. He 
never said unkind things of anybody, and even his 
criticisms were amusing and gentle. He was a 
man of sturdy independence, not ashamed to enter- 
tain the highest in the land — like the true gen- 
tleman he was — in the simplest fashion possible. 
Royalty, Dukes, Viceroys, litterateurs, poets, 
musicians, writers, all were only too pleased to 
dine with him; and the dinner was both cooked 
and served by his general servant. He gave his 
guests soup, roast, vegetables, a plain pudding, or 
dessert. His many friends with splendid houses 
often sent him grapes, melons, and peaches, or 
a few dozen bottles of wine. He need not have 
entertained at all, for he was a welcome and 
sought for guest by the greatest in the land; but 
he loved having people under his own roof. His 
beautiful, simple, sincere, sweet, and tender na- 
ture made him loved of all the world — Catholic 
and Protestant, aristocrat and peasant, rich and 
poor, Enghsh and Irish, all deplored Father 
Healy's death, which he met in characteristic 
fashion, whispering gaily to his sister, " Notice to 
quit!" 



CHAPTER VIII 

THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 

Better Strife than Loneliness 

(Irish Proverb) 

After ten years of homeless wandering and con- 
stant loneliness, I can shake hands with this 
proverb. For Strife passes. But Loneliness 
abides. My most forlorn moments are when, be- 
fore unpacking, I enter a hotel bedroom. Why 
must these temporary abodes be rendered so 
detached, inhospitable, and lifeless? Why must 
hotels be so hopelessly ugly? With not even the 
smallest suggestion of that permanent habitation. 
Home. If ever this mortal coil proves too much 
for me, and I shuffle off, for my fell purpose I 
will select a large hotel. 

The truth is that women, and above all women 
who are home-makers, should furnish hotels. Men 
look upon hotel-keeping as a business, a profit not 
a loss at the end of the year, no matter how the 
profit is obtained. I once stayed in a hotel in 
Harrogate which had been furnished by a lady. 
The carpet on the floor was a quiet green, the 
wall-paper a plain cream, there were flowered 
chintz curtains lined with green to darken the 

153 



154 HERSELF— IRELAND 

windows, a pleasing engraving over the chimney- 
piece, a wardrobe with a sufficiency of hooks, a 
good-looking chest of drawers and dressing-table, 
a washstand with flowered china, a green screen, 
and, oh, wonder of wonders, a writing-table with 
paper, pens, a blotter, and a useful bottle of ink. 
I would like to furnish a hotel. Every room 
should supply the reasonable wants of the occu- 
pant, and a well-designed frame should contain 
these words: 

" Welcome, Friend. Make yourself at home. 
Try not to be sick or sorry in this hotel. We wish 
your stay to be a pleasant one. Because you are 
under our roof you have claims upon us. Lone- 
some questions answered by our Home Advisor." 
— Who should be young, pretty, and optimistic. 

Yes, certainly, when I consider life in all its 
aspects, hotels and otherwise. Strife is a thousand 
times better than Loneliness. 

It is the successful combination of spiritual and 
human attributes that accounts for the fascina- 
tion of the Irish character. Spirituality in an 
Irishman does not destroy his own humanity, or 
the understanding of it in other people. He may 
condemn shortcomings in his friends, but at the 
same time he forgives them. And the Irish are 
forgiving to each other. In Texas if two men 
indulge in an insulting quarrel it means war to 
the knife, and the death of one or both of them. 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 155 

In England if two men quarrel with bitterness, 
it means a life-long estrangement. In Ireland 
if the belligerents quarrel on Monday, it means 
they dine together on Friday. And who shall 
say they are not the wisest, the most philosophical 
and civilised of the three? There is everything 
in the day, the mood, the hour. Fever riots in 
the blood on Monday, it boils and rushes to the 
brain, inflaming view and vision. On Friday the 
temperature has lowered, the pulse is quiet, the 
brain normal, and the point of view calm and 
friendly. And Irishmen, no matter how out- 
rageously they quarrel, can afford to mend it, for 
their most prejudiced enemies have never yet 
called them cowards. Foes do not become friends 
to avoid a fight; a subtle understanding, deeper 
and more moving than an avalanche of words 
binds them together. Forgiveness and Hope bear 
their noble and yet human part in Ireland. Hell 
is not so much considered as purgatory. In spite 
of being mischievous sprites, turning the milk 
sour, weaving spells, and, if crossed, being ex- 
cessively spiteful, there is hope even for the fairies, 
and they are affectionately called " the Good 
People." They were once angels who, expelled 
from Heaven, have not fallen further into Hell 
than this unsatisfactory world. They still have 
a sense of right and of justice, and befriend peo- 
ple who are kind and generous, but punish those 



156 HERSELF— IRELAND 

who are mean, miserly, and without consideration 
for the fairies. To cut down a thorn tree always 
brings disaster. 

" Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 
We daren't go a-hunting 

For fear of little men; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together; 
Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather ! 

** By the craggy hillside 

Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thorn-trees 

For pleasure here and there. 
If any man so daring 

As dig them up in spite. 
He shall find their sharpest thorns 

In his bed at night." 

They are most worldly wise, the little people; it 
was a fairy prince who gave a peasant these words 
of wisdom: "What you don't spend yourself, 
your enemies will spend for you." They speak 
the most beautiful GaeHc, and sing the sweetest 
songs, accompanied by silver flutes and trumpets, 
and they love dancing and laughter. On the fifth 
day of the week, which is Friday, they are free 
to do mortals any harm in their power, therefore 
this day is unlucky for weddings, or journeys, or 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 157 

even funerals. The Good People cannot avoid 
being changeable and capricious, the fear and 
doubt of finding forgiveness and mercy on Judg- 
ment Day makes them reckless and maHcious. On 
the other hand, remembrance of their original 
blessed condition often influences them to benefi- 
cent and helpful actions towards man. 

We are ourselves singularly like the fairies. A 
combination of good and evil, with a pitiful un- 
certainty of our fate on the final great day. We 
hope for mercy, but we have an active enemy in 
the devil, against us. — ^What splendid scope the 
War has given him! 

The devil is not ignored in Ireland. He is con- 
stantly spoken of, and recognised as a foe to be 
outgeneraled, and even propitiated. He is not 
like the old-fashioned frying-pan, Cromwellian 
devil of Protestant countries, ever possessed by a 
desire to broil and baste. His pursuits are more 
diverse, and he has a sense of humour which 
enables him to grin when a quick-witted sinner 
eludes him. Purgatory, not being fatal, is his 
worst stumbling-block. 

The tram was striking sparks from its red-hot 
tires on the main hne to hell, when it pulled up 
at the last station, and the porters called out, 
"Catholics, change here for Purgatory! Prot- 
estants, keep your seats " 

Good Catholics regard the devil with a kind of 



158 HERSELF— IRELAND 

pity on account of his many failures. He works 
so hard, so resourcefully, so intelhgently, his suc- 
cess seems so sure, and then — defeat. 

Doctor Damer, who lived near Tipperary, sold 
his soul for a boot — a top-boot reaching above his 
knee — to be filled with gold. On the day ap- 
pointed, the devil arrived with a bag of sovereigns. 
Meanwhile, the doctor had cut away the heel from 
the boot, nailed it to the floor, and made an open- 
ing through the ceiling to the room below. The 
devil emptied the bag, and still the boot remained 
unfilled. 

" Confound it all," he said, telephoning to hell; 
" send up imps with more gold." 

Only at the end of a hard day's work was the 
boot full of coins, and Doctor Damer the richest 
man in the County. When he grew old, with ad- 
mirable foresight, he gave his ill-gotten gains to 
the sick and the poor. It was quite by accident 
that the devil heard of his last illness. He at once 
called for the ratification of their bargain, but 
the doctor had departed the day before to work 
out his salvation in Purgatory, duping the devil 
for the second time. The " old boy " must be 
quick-witted to gain an advantage over his Irish 
antagonists. 

Poor devil, it is only in Ireland that he ever 
has a word of approval. In Trinity College his 
signatiu'e is shown with fearlessness and pride. 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 159 

A great magician having invoked the devil to find 
out the whereabouts of concealed treasure, found 
his pen and paper suspended in mid-air, and 
concealed by a black and fiery cloud, an invisible 
hand wrote in Syrian characters and signed him- 
self, E. Quid. In the Syrian language it may be 
a portentous signature, but in the cold light of day, 
in a glass case, it suggests a facetious and most 
light-hearted devil. 

A man, his ass and cart, were on a bridge with 
a swollen, hungry river rushing madly beneath it. 
The rotten timbers creaked ominously. The man 
crossed himself and said, " God is good. God 
is good." The creaking grew louder. " But," 
he added, " the divil isn't bad — the divil isn't 
bad." 

A small farmer was showing an Englishman 
the nearby country. " On the top of that pla- 
teau," he said, " is the ' Devil's bed,' underneath 
it is ' Devil's punchbowl,' and on the other side is 
the ' Devil's glen.' " 

" The devil seems to own a lot of places in 
Ireland," said the Englishman. 

" Yes, Sir, he does," said the Irishman, 
" but he is an absentee landlord. He lives in 
England." 

" Great noise and httle wool," said the devil 
with pointed sarcasm when shearing a pig, and 
being deafened by the squeals. 



160 HERSELF— IRELAND 

George Bernard Shaw in Man and Super- 
man makes the devil encouragingly pohte to his 
guests in hell. 

The Statue. " This is metaphysics Juan, why 
the devil should — (to the devil) I beg your 
pardon." 

The Devil. " Pray don't mention it. I have 
always regarded the use of my name to secure ad- 
ditional emphasis as a high comphment to me. It 
is quite at your service, commander." 

There are occasions when to say a man or ani- 
mal will fight hke the devil is high praise. Dr. 
Hyde makes the gossoon laud the pig by calling 
him " a divil." 

It is said that the Irish will not say yes or no. 
Not because they cannot say yes or no, but be- 
cause they are perfect adepts in evasion. It whets 
their quick wits, and gives their tongues a neat 
chance of thrust and parry. I do not know a 
better example than " The Minister and the 
Gossoon," in Dr. Hyde's Religious Songs of 
Connaught. 

" One day there was a poor little gossoon on the 
side of the road, who was taking care of an old 
sow of a pig and a litter of bonhams along with 
her. 

" A minister came the way, and he riding upon a 
fine white horse, and he said to the gossoon, 
* Where does this road bring you?'" 




Miss Kitty Gunning 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 161 

Gossoon. " I am here a fortnight, and it never 
brought me anywhere yet." 

Minister. " Now isn't it the wise httle boy you 
are. Whose are those little pigs? " 

Gossoon. " They are the old sow's." 

Minister. " I know that, but I am asking you 
who is the master of the bonhams? " 

Gossoon. " That little black and white divil 
that you see rooting. He is able to beat the whole 
of them." 

Minister. " That is not what I am asking you 
at all. But who is your own master? " 

Gossoon. " My mistress's husband, a man as 
good as you'd get from here to himself." 

Minister. " You don't understand me yet. 
Who is your mistress? Perhaps you understand 
that." 

Gossoon. " I understand you well. She's my 
master's wife. Everybody know's that." 

Minister. " You are a wise little boy; and it is 
good for me to let you be, but tell me do you know 
where Patrick O'Donnell is living? " 

Gossoon. " Yes, indeed. Follow this road 
until you come to a boreen on the side of your 
thumb-hand. Then follow your nose, and if you 
go astray break the guide." 

Minister. " Indeed and you're a ripe little lad. 
What trade will you be when you'll be older? " 

Gossoon. " Herding a pig. Don't you see that 



162 HERSELF— IRELAND 

I am putting in my term. What is your own 
trade?" 

Minister. " A good trade. I am showing 
people what is the way to Heaven.'* 

Gossoon. " Oh, what a har; you cannot show 
the way to any place. You don't know the way to 
Patrick O'Donnell's, a man that everybody — big 
and little — in this country knows, and I'm certain 
sure that you have no knowledge of the road to 
Heaven." 

Minister. " I am beaten. Here's half-a-crown 
for your cleverness. When I come again you'll 
get another." 

Gossoon. " Thank you ; it's a pity that a fool 
like you doesn't come this way every day." 

This is a very consistent httle study of Irish 
character. The minister never loses his temper, 
and is so amused with the boy's slipperiness and 
quickness that he gives him a piece of money. 
And even that fails to soften the lad's heart; he 
is saucy and sparkling to the last. The gift of 
speech is a most natural and not at all surprising 
thing in Ireland. A solicitor told me of a deed 
he had drawn up for an old peasant, who gave 
the farm to his son on his marriage. " Now put 
down as I say it, these words of mine," said he. 
" I am to live with my son until my death, I am 
to have free use of the fire without molestation. 
I am to sleep in the four-post bed alone." How 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 163 

much is crowded into these few words, " free 
use of the fire without molestation." It means 
that none of the family are at liberty to 
say, " Grandfather, please move and let me get 
near the fire." He has provided against any 
such contingency ; and no matter how many babies 
come, or how crowded the cottage may be. 
Grandpa will sleep comfortably alone in the four- 
post bed. 'Not the most briUiant lawyer could put 
more succinctly exactly what is meant than this 
Irish peasant. All kinds and sorts of people 
talk well. Literary people of course, it is expected 
of them — although a famous authoress sat next 
Mark Twain at a dinner-party, and never uttered 
a syllable. At the end of the evening he turned 
and said to her, " Why so boisterous, my child? " 
And the people who are not literary, people of 
leisure, and people who work, poets, priests, or 
peasants can express themselves in the most pic- 
turesque language. 

A humble mother, at her son's wake, called 
out, " Oh, women, look on me ! Look on me, 
women. Have you ever seen the like of me in 
my sorrow? Arrah, then my son, my son, 'tis 
your mother that calls you. How long are you 
sleeping? Do you see the people around you, my 
darling, and I sorely weeping? Arrah, what is 
this paleness on your face? Sure, there was no 
equal to it in Erin for beauty and fairness. Your 



164 HERSELF— IRELAND 

hair was heavy as the wing of a raven, and your 
skin was whiter than the hand of a lady. It is the 
stranger must carry me to the grave, and my son 
lying here." 'No queen could have lamented her 
son with more dignity. All emotions are tran- 
scribed into words. The Irish minstrel improvises 
beautiful songs. The Irish enemy improvises 
amazing curses. Strangely enough curses seem to 
be indigenous to the soil, but how grotesque an 
Upper Tooting curse would be, or a Virginia 
Water curse, or even for the matter of that, a 
Washington, D.C. curse. On the other hand, a 
Wexford curse is natural and not the least gro- 
tesque, and a very nice, compact, comprehensive 
curse it is: 

" May the grass grow at your door and the fox 
build his nest on your hearthstone. May the 
light fade from your eyes, so that you never see 
what you love. May your own blood rise against 
you, and the sweetest drink you take be the bit- 
terest cup of sorrow. May you die without benefit 
of clergy; may there be none to shed a tear at 
your grave, and may the hearthstone of hell be 
your best bed for ever." 

It is a little difficult to curse three enemies at 
once, but in this instance of Bruader, Smith, and 
Glinn it has been admirably done. The original 
is a very long curse, but these verses serve to show 
the style of malediction: 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 165 

" Bruader and Smith and Glinn 
Amen, dear God I pray. 
May they lie low in waves of woe, 
And tortures slow each day ! 

Amen! 

" Glinn in a shaking ague, 

Cancer on Bruader's tongue, 
Amen, O King of the Heavens ! and Smith. 
For ever stricken dumb. 

Amen! 

" Bruader with nerveless limbs. 

Hemp strangling Glinn's last breath, 
Amen, O King of the World's Light 
And Smith in grips with death. 

Amen ! " 

Rafferty's curse, if it took effect, would be most 
unpleasant, there are such a variety of diseases 
embodied in it, while poisoned dragons' gall 
sounds indeed a bitter potion. 

" The feet may you lose from the knees down, 
The sight of the eyes, and the movements of the hands, 
The leprosy of Job may it come down upon you. 
Farcy, erysipelas, and king's evil in the neck. 

" A chest-boil, and a cold felon on you 
A wheezing, a smothering, and a seile siadhain. 
Dragons' gall and poison mixed through it. 
May that be your sleeping draught at the hour of your 
death." 



166 HERSELF— IRELAND 

I thought, until I knew more about curses, that 
even the curser could never take back his impreca- 
tion, that once hurled forth it was out of his keep- 
ing for ever; but there have been instances when 
they have been called back, and sent forth again 
as blessings. And because of this fluency with 
words that is perhaps why there is not a finer 
Irish literature. In speech beautiful thoughts and 
sparkhng witticisms are lost and forgotten. It is 
far easier for me to express myself in words than 
by pen. I must read aloud all that I write, as my 
ear and tongue are both quicker and more dis- 
cerning than my eye, conversation is far more 
stimulating to my creative faculties than quiet 
meditation, and I can perfectly understand the 
disinclination people who talk have to writing. 
The very best talker I have ever heard is an 
Irishman, George Russell, " A.E." The well-be- 
loved, and the deservedly well-beloved, of Ireland. 
He has half-a-dozen ways of expressing himself, 
being a poet, a man of letters, a painter, a lecturer 
— and the two things — to talk and to lecture — 
do not necessarily go together. An agreeable 
talker cannot always stand on his legs and speak 
to an audience, but Mr. Russell can do both — and 
his conversation has every grace. He illumines his 
subjects without pedantry. He is instructive, and 
at the same time amusing and witty. He has a 
wonderful memory, and is master of a wide range 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 167 

of subjects; his facts, — for he is that unusual com- 
bination, a practical poet, — are well marshalled 
together. He can express himself in a voice of 
many and varied tones, even the most insincere 
listener would realise his sincerity, and can there 
be a more rare sensation than to feel that a scin- 
tillatingly brilliant conversationalist is sincere? 
I have very often enjoyed and laughed at Oscar 
Wilde's paradoxes, and listened to him talk with 
delight, but invariably he gave me the impression 
of a charming orator expressing other opinions 
than his own. 

Occasionally a silent Irishman is to be found. 
I knew an Irish doctor living in London who was 
perfectly inarticulate. A witty confrere, whose 
wife he attended, said of him, " O'Grady may 
know what is the matter with Herself, but he 
can't tell anybody." 

And there are also Irishmen quite devoid of any 
sense of humour. But these are exceptions, for 
usually not only do the Irish possess humour and 
a ready tongue, but they possess a ready and 
reckless courage where chance is concerned. The 
Irish in America are rich, and they are poor. 
They take a chance, and Fortune smiles, or she 
frowns and runs away, but they do not grumble 
at her humours. The Scandinavians, on the 
other hand, take no chances, they work hard, make 
a competence, and are satisfied. What would the 



168 HERSELF— IRELAND 

world be without the hair-breadth escapes of the 
Irish? A chance gives them the miUionth part of 
an inch, they take it, and the goddess, shaking 
her sides with laughter, claps her hands to applaud 
as she sees them scramble to a breathless success. 

A wild Irishman from Australia was in Paris 
during the visit of the Tzar and Tzarina when 
the whole city was mad with gaiety and excite- 
ment. Every house was decorated with flowers 
and flags, even the trees bloomed and blossomed 
in paper roses, and very pretty if somewhat sur- 
prising they looked peeping forth from the green 
leaves. Joy and festivity was in the blood, bands 
played, soldiers marched, and Pat O'Flynn said, 
" I shall go to the ball with the Tzar." 

"I'll bet you a hundred pounds you don't," said 
the English friend to whom he made the remark. 

"Done," said O'Flynn; "I'll go; notify your 
banker that your account may not be overdrawn," 
and my friend O'Flynn began his machinations. 
He went to a costumer and hired a magnificent uni- 
form of pale-blue cloth, braided in gold and silver, 
epaulets rich with bullion, a scarlet sash, and a 
glittering metal helmet. He then made in differ- 
ent pawnshops selections of orders — Turkish, 
Polish, Italian, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese — 
he was prodigal as to nationality and catholic in 
his taste — and these he pinned over the left breast 
of his uniform, until they overlapped like the 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 169 

scales of a shining fish. The small interstices were 
filled with little street medals, heads of the Tzar 
and Tzarina, and the President of the Republic. 
The night of the ball he covered himself with a 
blue cloak lined with scarlet satin, and waited on 
the outside of the crowd until the Tzar and 
Tzarina and their suite passed up the steps to 
enter the palace. Just as they disappeared he 
threw back his long cloak and said to the excited 
police, '^ Je suis en retard, mon Dieu! je suis en 
retard! le Tzar! le Tzar!! Je suis General Irish- 
offsky. General! le premier Irishoffshy." One 
emotional Frenchman, impressed by his grandeur, 
shouted out, "^ Vive Vlrishoffshy," the crowd gave 
a cheer which they had not accorded to the 
Tzar, and he entered the ballroom in a blaze of 
glory. 

His friend, the Englishman, standing well back 
in the crowd, watched the brilliant figure disap- 
pear, and said, " Well, I'm damned. He's the 

h of a fellow," went off to his hotel, 

and gamely wrote the cheque for a hundred 
pounds. 

Doctor Patrick Murphy, when in the medical 
service in India, told me he was making a voyage 
from Calcutta to Bombay. On the boat were a 
number of Buddhist priests; they belonged to a 
silent order and were all very devout. But even 
buried in their habits and hoods, he thought he saw 



170 HERSELF— IRELAND 

in a lean face, burnt a fine bronze, the intelligent 
gleam of a dark-blue eye. And, for some reason 
or other, it seemed to him a familiar Irish eye. At 
first he dismissed the idea as impossible, but as he 
closely regarded the broad-shouldered, long- 
hmbed man at his prayers, and saw how much 
more manly and free in action he was than is 
usual to the Indian, he decided if the opportunity 
arose to speak to him. When the boat arrived at 
Bombay, the priests, not hurrying away, were the 
last people to cross the gang-plank, and the blue- 
eyed one lingered well in the rear. 

Taking his chance, my friend said, " An' will 
you have a drop of the craythur? " 

The Buddhist priest raised his head like a war- 
horse who hears a trumpet, and, speaking in a 
low voice with a rich brogue said, " Faith an' I 
will." 

" Then follow me to the cabin," said Doctor 
Murphy. 

After a generous peg of whiskey, the doctor had 
only time to say, "Where do you come from?" 

The priest said, " The West's awake, from 
Galway," he then hurried up the steps and Doctor 
Murphy saw him no more. 

What Arabian Nights' romance could be more 
entertaining than the adventures of that West of 
Ireland broth of a boy, until he becomes among 
many other things, a priest of Buddha. Nothing 



THE IRISH TEMPERAMENT 171 

that Kipling ever wrote would be half so thriUing 
or so amusing as his experiences. The true and 
natural soldier of fortune, the man at home in 
every country, is always the Irishman, for it seems 
that he alone can get into the skin of another 
nationality. A constant reproach to the Irish is 
that they are visionaries and dreamers. And if 
they are — Joan of Arc saved France through a 
vision. The dreams of Napoleon made him con- 
queror of the world. I know the best, the sweet- 
est, and the most worthy part of my life consists 
of dreams and visions. How often in the wakeful 
hours of the night have I endowed that home for 
governesses, where they can have breakfast in bed, 
tea at any hour of the afternoon, ari stay out as 
long as they like at night. And the Judge Paschal 
Law School, in my dear Father's name, where 
men could become lawyers free of all expense. 
And the bank where deserving young people very 
much in love could borrow money when they 
wanted to marry — I've tried to work out a system 
of getting it back again, but it is very difficult. 
And the Temple of Cleanliness where the dirtiest 
could get kindly but at the same time tonic advice. 
And the Temple of Cleanliness where the dirtiest 
and the poorest would never be refused a clean 
towel, soap, and a bath. If only the fairies would 
tell me where to find gold, then I could prove to 
my fellowman my love for him. Now, alas! I am 



172 HERSELF— IRELAND 

limited to tonic advice, and it has not the weight 
it would have if given in the House of Hope. 
But, oh, of all things we must cherish our dreams 
and our visions, for I am sure in them lies forgive- 
ness for our omissions and our sins. 



CHAPTER IX 

A PERFORMING ZOO 

I HAVE been to Zoological Gardens in America, 
in England, in Germany, in France, in Holland, 
in Italy, and nowhere in the world have I found 
captive creatures so " domesticated " as in Dublin. 
Probably it comes from the patience, tenderness, 
understanding, and intimacy of the keepers with 
the various animals. The Irish are, except where 
patriotism is concerned, a philosophical race. They 
expect fierceness from wild beasts, and only seek 
preparedness in dealing with them. 

A woman sits at the entrance of the Zoo, with 
all the various grain of a zoological menu ar- 
ranged on her stall. I bought a number of small 
differently coloured packets, before entering the 
gate. The birds recognised them from afar, and 
came rapturously along the path towards me. 
The peacock knew his own particular paper at a 
glance, and ate out of my hand with sharp relish. 
The ducks on the pond stopped swimming and 
came with smiling beaks and wet-webbed feet, for 
the grain contained in their familiar little red 
bags. And all my way to the Lion House, I was 
followed by a motley procession of the feathered 

173 



174 HERSELF— IRELAND 

tribe. Hearing that Flood, the keeper, has been 
more successful in raising lions in captivity than 
any other student of natural history in Europe, 
I was greatly interested to make his acquaintance. 
He is a good-looking, strong man of fifty or more, 
with handsome blue, steady, unwinking eyes. He 
says himself he has been so long among the lions 
that he now rather resembles them, and indeed I 
noticed a little soft yellow fur beginning to make 
its appearance on his ears. 

There were six or eight young lions to be seen, 
two cubbies a fortnight old, four cubs of four 
months with a dog in their cage to mind and tame 
them, and two young lioness flappers, just begin- 
ning to take notice, filled with female curiosity and 
restlessly desirous of taking a promenade. Hugh, 
a fine large irritable Irish lion — for he was born 
in the Zoo — refused to be civil even to Flood. He 
roared loudly when any one went near his cage, 
and if a man stood at a respectable distance look- 
ing at him, he gave ominous rumbles. Leo, an- 
other lion born in the jungle, of much more ami- 
able disposition, was evidently a seeker after popu- 
larity, for he squatted on his haunches, pressed his 
rough mane against the bars, and apparently 
enjoyed having his head scratched by people of 
sporting tendencies. Flood asked politely if I de- 
sired to participate in this unusual amusement, but 
I refused, fearing that, as many accidents have 




o 

N 



X 

o 



A PERFORMING ZOO 175 

befallen me, my hand might be left in the cage. 
And, indeed, I did not feel so much sympathy 
towards Leo as towards Hugh, who was after all, 
the traditional lion, a savage captive. There were 
some magnificent tigers in their cages, splendid 
fellows in the very pink of condition. One of 
them, by the commanding and persevering Flood, 
had been taught a trick, which he loathes from the 
very bottom of his tiger soul, but which for some 
reason, best known to himself, he performs. 

In the corner of the cage lies a large log of 
wood. Flood, with a steady voice, says, " Straddle 
your log!" The tiger's eyes blaze with green 
fury, he snarls, showing all his dangerous white 
fangs, and snorts with such rage that his whiskers 
fly from his curling hp. Nevertheless, with drag- 
ging pauses, he sidles up to the faggot. " Go on, 
Sir, go on! " says Flood, and still breathing impre- 
cations against his tormentor, and cursing with 
every breath, he slowly straddles the log. " Now, 
sit down," says Flood, and the sleek monster cat, 
with a " damn you, damn you, if I could only slit 
your weazand," slowly squats upon the log, dis- 
playing his magnificent white chest, which heaves 
stupendously. He is quiet for a moment, then, 
with a roar of pent-up rage, he flings himself from 
his seat, sails through the air, and grapples the 
iron bars with his sharp claws, giving them a good, 
ratthng shake. And I was very glad, indeed. 



176 HERSELF— IRELAND 

that something strong stood between that monarch 
of the jungle and his audience. 

" Do you know," I said to Flood, looking at a 
little velvety snub-nosed female lion cub and her 
brother, who seemed less intelligent but more man- 
ageable, " I have a theory that I could bring up a 
lion on bread and milk and moral suasion, and he 
would become a possible member of society." 

" You might try moral suasion, but not bread 
and milk; the lion is a carniverous animal and 
must have meat. Theories are not successful when 
applied to beasts of the jungle. Kipling has done 
it in a book, and made them all talk; but a Hon, 
as far as I know him," — I looked at Flood's 
hands covered with scars — he knows him — " re- 
mains a lion. No feline, except the domestic cat, 
is ever tame while there is life in it." 

" Have you ever known an amateur to try and 
tame a lion? " 

" Oh, yes," said Flood. " There was once a 
gentleman who had even a greater ambition than 
yours. Madam; he was not satisfied to bring up 
one lion on moral suasion, but tried two." 

" And what was the result? " 

" Ah," said Flood, " the end was tragedy. Do 
you see that young lioness sitting in the middle 
cage? " 

I looked; there was a large, fluffy, blond lion- 
ess, with a self-satisfied kittenish expression, and 



A PERFORMING ZOO 177 

a vixenish smile, regarding us attentively. I am 
certain she understood every word of the conver- 
sation. All female creatures understand conver- 
sations that are a tribute to their vanity. 

" Yes," I said, " I see the young lady you de- 
scribe. Is she the heroine of the story? " 

" She is," said Flood. " This gentleman gave 
me a fair price for her and a good male cub. He 
took them both down to his place — he owned many 
wild acres in Connemara — and there he brought 
the two of them up on affection and close com- 
panionship. He fairly educated those lions, and 
when he came to see me he said they both fol- 
lowed him about like dogs, licking his hands, and 
showing him every sign of affection. He had a 
big hall with a stone floor, and they used to lie 
down in front of the fireplace on winter evenings; 
except for loud purrs, they might have been mis- 
taken for monster poodles. When the male lion, 
in the world of hons, was about seventeen, and the 
lioness the same age, the gentleman made a visit 
to Dublin and, as always, he came to the Zoo. 

" ' Flood,' he said to me, ' you may be, and are, 
a specialist in raising lion cubs, but you are all 
wrong about their training; you are too strict a 
master; my lions wouldn't harm me for the world; 
you see I've brought them up by kindness. Now, 
entirely on account of the complaints of the family 
and servants, I have been obhged to put them into 



178 HERSELF— IRELAND 

an enclosure of tall iron bars, but they are as play- 
ful and gentle as cats.' 

" * I beg of you, Sir,' I said, ' not to be deceived 
by those lions. They may love you, but love has 
never changed the nature of a beast nor of a man. 
Love does not make a coward courageous, nor a 
thief honest, nor an unfaithful man faithful. Ani 
mals and man remain true to their instincts. That 
young male lion is now just about ready to choose 
his mate, and he will want to offer her the thing 
he values most. It may be you. Sir. You say 
he loves you, so I beg of you to be on your 
guard. The psychological moment has arrived 
and you can't be too watchful. Did you ever 
hear of a Philadelphia family who had a young 
lioness for a pet, very gentle, harmless, and play- 
ful, but who broke out of her cage one night, at- 
tacked her master on a balcony, and bit the fingers 
off a policeman who came to the rescue? Put not 
your trust in wild animals, Sir.' " 

" And then," I said, " what happened? " 
Flood sighed. " The gentleman went back to 
Connemara; — it was in the warm spring. The 
sap was flowing in the trees and plants, birds 
were mating, and young animals were getting rest- 
less. The lions' master went to the enclosure, 
opened the gateway, and called to them. They 
were named Paul and Virginia. There was an 
instant's pause, then Paul sailed through the air 



A PERFORMING ZOO 179 

like a projectile, and caught the man by the throat. 
It was an instantaneous kill. Afterwards he 
dragged the body into the enclosure and laid it at 
the feet of Virginia." 

At this moment I am sure Virginia, who had 
been listening to him with her head coquettishly 
turned to one side, grinned at me, and taking 
warning, I said to Flood, " I don't think, after 
all, I will bring up a lion on moral suasion; per- 
haps it is better to leave you without foolhardy 
rivals to your job." 

Flood smiled. " Maybe you are right," he said. 

" But there are civilised lions," I said. " Quite 
lately a travelling circus was going through New 
York, when a lion managed to loosen the bars of 
his cage, slip out, and take a promenade on Broad- 
way. I need scarcely say that those who met him 
gave him the right of way. He was left to look 
at the shop-windows unmolested. Proceeding 
leisurely toward the Battery he paused before a 
sign and read: 

" ' The Best Free Lunch Counter in the World. 
See For Yourself.' 

" And he saw for himself. It was three o'clock 
when he entered. The place was quite empty. 
The barkeeper was reading The Sun. Hearing 
footsteps, he reached for a bottle of Bourbon 
whiskey, lifted his eyes from the paper, and paused 



180 HERSELF— IRELAND 

to see a large, shaggy lion eating from ' left to 
right.' Beef, chickens, hams, ducks, peach Melbas, 
disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. When 
the counter was cleared of food the lion, with ice 
cream clinging to his whiskers, squatted on his 
haunches and made full rumbles of grateful 
thanks. The barkeeper, not understanding his 
language, was petrified with fear, and his silence 
was getting on the lion's nerves; who, between 
the rumbles, began impatiently swishing his tail. 
The distracted keepers, rushing down Broadway, 
heard familiar sounds, followed that direction, and 
with no difficulty captured the Free Lunch 
Lion." 

" The man was mighty lucky to have food be- 
twixt him and the lion," said Flood. "I'm glad 
they took him alive. I like the beasts." 

" Tell me how it is that you are so successful 
with your little cubs; it is wonderful how they 
prosper in captivity." 

" I have been at this business a long time, and 
I make a specialty of baby lions and their diseases, 
just as some doctors make a specialty of children's 
diseases. The critical moment for a cub is when 
he begins to eat meat ; then he must be looked after 
with great care. Lions vary as much in constitu- 
tion and character as human beings. One animal 
is sulky and morbid, a second is stupid, a third is 
subject to sudden fits of rage, a fourth is timid, 



A PERFORMING ZOO 181 

and a fifth curious. There are hons and honesses 
who can only be trained by a woman — others can 
only be trained by a man. I've had lions of 
exceptional intelligence and sold them to trainers, 
but a cub from the jungle is more easily managed 
than one born in captivity; accustomed to man 
from the beginning, he has no respect or fear of 
him — while to a wild feline, man is still a 
mystery." 

Then we discussed the insurrection and the War. 
Flood told me that only a week before his eldest 
son had been shot in the battle of the Somme. At 
the beginning of the War he enlisted in the Army, 
was on active service for many months in France, 
had been granted a short leave, and immediately 
after rejoining his regiment he had been killed. 

" He was one of the finest young fellows you 
could wish to see. Tall, over six feet, straight 
as a pine tree, fresh-faced, as strong as a lion; 
and there was nothing he was afraid of; neither 
man, nor beast, nor gun," said Flood. " He's 
gone; it's harder on his Mother than it is on me," 
he sighed heavily. 

Ireland has paid her toll. After the grand push 
I met many mothers too poor to wear black 
clothes, but they wore mourning in their eyes and 
in their hearts. 

If Flood has a rival in the Zoo, it is the keeper 
of the elephants. " General " and " Captain " are 



182 HERSELF— IRELAND 

as well trained as the usual performing animals 
of a circus, the most amusing trick of their 
repertoire being a musical number. The small 
elephant plays the mouth-organ sweetly, the large 
elephant plays it boldly. But they had only one 
mouth-organ between them, that one unworthy of 
their talent, and they were obliged to wait the 
convenience of each other. Two instruments 
would enable them to perform duets. I supplied 
the deficiency with a fine large, resonant, red 
Japanese mouth-organ, which Mr. Percy La- 
bouchere found for me in Cork. On the day of 
presentation, when I offered it to the large ele- 
phant, he gave it a great blast, which sounded 
quite a Wagnerian chord ; then quickly transferred 
his attention to me, to see if I had concealed any 
apples about my wearing apparel. Since that 
day there have been many rehearsals, and now the 
elephants are adepts in duets. 

All animals can be taught tricks; a member of 
my family owns a guinea-pig who sings. His 
voice has not the full volume nor the thrilling 
quality of Caruso's, but when his mistress says, 
" Sing, Squeezel," he pipes a fairy rondeau to 
carrots, and swells to twice his normal size at the 
applause which follows. Sir John Lubbock 
claimed to have a dog who could talk, and Lucian 
made his animals in conversation both wise and 
witty. 




-1 f= 



3 K 






A PERFORMING ZOO 183 

" Tell me," says Micyllus to the Cock, " when 
you were a dog, a horse, or a fish, or a frog, how 
did you like that life? " 

" Every one of these lives is much more quiet 
than that of man, as the hfe of animals is within 
the bounds of natural desires and needs : for among 
them you could never see a usurious horse, or a 
backbiting frog, a sophisticated jay, a gormet 
gnat, or a deceitful cock." 

I will allow that a frog's face does not suggest 
backbiting proclivities, it is too broad and genial; 
and a horse is too honest for usury, but jay birds 
— at least American jay birds — are gay birds, and 
are more than sophisticated, for: 

" De jay bird he 'loped wid de blue bird wife, 
An' it almost took dat blue bird life." 

And gormet gnats — I bear their scars still — are 
certainly to be found during the summer months 
in Ireland; and I've often seen a calculating and 
deceitful cock, head held high, staring absent- 
mindedly away from a worm, and when the atten- 
tion of all the hens was distracted, he would swoop 
down and swallow it. 



CHAPTER X 

THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 

While there is no capital that has given me 
more pleasure than Dublin — the fine Georgian 
houses, the picture galleries, the splendid libraries 
— the museum has given me the greatest pleasure 
of all. It was not originally designed for a pub- 
lic building, but was a magnificent house built by 
the first Duke of Leinster, the father of Sir 
Edward FitzGerald, for his unusually large fa- 
mily; the beautiful and charming Duchess being 
the mother of eighteen children. Lady Leitrim 
wrote of her when a widow, " The black is a set- 
ting for the fair complexion. As she sat there, 
a wax candle light upon her face, she was as proud 
and graceful as a swan." 

When his friends asked the Duke why he had 
built his house in an unfashionable quarter, he 
answered airily, " Oh, they will follow me wher- 
ever I go," and he was quite right; being a Duke 
they foUowed him. And it is the same to-day. 

There were innumerable bedrooms, dressing- 
rooms, nurseries, playrooms, and magnificent 
suites of reception rooms. When the house was 
young and filled with young voices and childlike 

184 



THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 185 

effervescence it must have been, in spite of its 
dignity and size, a gay and cheerful place, al- 
though Lord Edward FitzGerald wrote his 
mother, " Leinster House does not inspire the 
brightest ideas," but anywhere his reflections be- 
fore the rebellion would have been sad and 
anxious. The house must have been at one time 
the scene of lively gaiety. The Duke of Leinster 
was an actor and singer of more than ordinary 
talent; there were theatricals and concerts, balls 
and ridottos, when great ladies and gentlemen ill 
masques and spangles brightened the rooms with 
changing colour. And some subtle sentiment 
seems yet to linger about the place. It is a 
museum, but it is human. After the Union, when 
so many great houses met with changes, Leinster 
House passed into the hands of the Government, 
and became the National Museum. 

One of the rooms has been embelhshed by the 
superb ceiling and finely proportioned panelling 
and doors, the noble chimney-piece and fire-grate 
from Tracton House — now demolished — in St. 
Stephen's Green. The large rooms leading from 
one to the other lend themselves to the display of 
the collection, which is varied enough to suit the 
most profound scholar, or a lady interested only 
in jewels. An archaeologist might linger for days 
among the stones, the arrowheads, the urns, and 
utensils of ancient Ireland. An interesting speci- 



186 HERSELF— IRELAND 

men is the stone covered with spirals, which stands 
at the entrance of the tumulus of New Grange. 
The deep carving has defied the wind and weather 
of centuries. But that the Irish climate is kind is 
proved by many treasures that have lain in the 
earth eight or nine hundred years, and are still 
in a fine state of preservation. A piece of fringe 
made of horse-hair about four hundred years 
before Christ was recently found in a County 
Antrim bog, and in 1886, near the village of 
Islandbridge, swords, spearheads, bosses of shields, 
tongs, brooches, mantlepins, and helmet crests of 
white metal were unearthed and proved to be rich 
relics of Scandinavian chiefs engaged in battle 
against the ancient Irish, "greatly to their dis- 
advantage on account of the Danes' corslets, thin 
and vahant swords, and their well rivetted long 
spears." These ancient warriors with their primi- 
tive implements fought with more manliness than 
men of the present day. It was a fair field and no 
quarter, but the air was clear of gas, and bombs 
did not tear up the earth and demolish strong- 
holds, which stood unimpaired even when they sur- 
rendered through force of arms. The Danish vik- 
ing sword-hilts of bronze, gilded and decorated 
with insets of silver wire, are finely wrought, but 
are not finer than ancient Irish work. The sword 
from the cemetery of Kilmainham is said to be 
one of the most perfect swords in any museum. 



THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 187 

And the Irish brooches of silver, of bronze, of 
silver gilt bronze, of enamel, and of gold and sil- 
ver cunningly inlaid, are remarkable for delicate 
handling. The most celebrated is the Tara brooch, 
made about 700 Anno Domini, and discovered in 
1850 on the strand at Betty stown near Drogheda. 
The main body of this large ornament is bronze 
decorated with fine gold filigree, and brilliant 
enamel and settings of blue and purple glass and 
of amber. The back of the brooch is probably 
executed by another hand, for the ornamentation 
of hard white bronze and cloisonne and red and 
blue enamel is freer in style than the front. The 
fineness of the work is exquisite; it was probably 
made by a friend and pupil of the Great Man who 
designed and illustrated the Book of Kells. Even 
more ancient than the brooch of Tara is a small 
collection of beads. Women of all ages have 
loved beads. Ladies of 900 were satisfied with 
glass. Ladies of 1917 demand pearls. That is the 
expensive difference. The eleven glass beads 
probably made in 800, and found in Kilmainham 
with iron weapons, have as much character as 
those manufactured to-day. Two of them are 
dark blue, with lattice patterns of lighter blue. 
A large one is of green glass studded with green 
enamel. How history repeats itself even in the 
combination of colour. Green and yellow as a 
decoration for the artistic young ladies of 800, 



188 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" Greenery yallery garments," according to Gil- 
bert, for the artistic young ladies of 1877; so cen- 
turies pass by, and there is nothing new under the 
sun. 

A jewel fit for a king. The Cross of Cong, 
perhaps the greatest treasure of the museum, was 
made for a King. Tur lough O' Conor, King of 
Ireland in 1123, designed a shrine worthy to hold 
a piece of the true Cross, and Irish artisans 
fashioned this beautiful piece of work. The Cross 
is made of oak as hard as a stone, encased with 
copper plates, enriched by ornaments of gilt 
bronze. The sides are framed in bands of silver, 
and the whole is held together by nails finished in 
the heads of animals, each nail a little work of art. 
A crystal of quartz set in the front face of the 
Cross covered the precious relic. The proportions 
are beautiful, and the multiplicity of the designs 
formed of gold filigree as fine as a spider's web, 
show a fertile imagination, while the tenacious set- 
ting of the stones displays enduring craftsmanship. 
I have looked again and again at the Cross of 
Cong so often described and pictured, and never 
failed to discover some new or overlooked beauty. 

Of great importance in the museum is the lovely 
gold work. 

" This," I said to Mr. Armstrong, as I stood 
before a case filled with beautiful gold Brob- 
dingnagian ornaments, pointing to a fine torque, 



THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 189 

" is the collar of gold which Malachi won from the 
proud invader." 

" No, indeed," said this gentleman of knowl- 
edgeable authority; " it is of a much later period." 

" Will you please show me the collar of that 
celebrated Red Branch Knight." 

" It has not been discovered," said Mr. Arm- 
strong. 

" Then," I said, " I will have to select a large 
beautiful torque and assign it to Malachi." 

" Oh, you cannot do that," said Mr. Arm- 
strong. " You really cannot." 

How damping to enthusiasm and to fancy is a 
museum conscience, where everything must be 
verified by facts, dates, and evidence. Only a 
high-minded and patient gentleman delighting in 
research is endowed with this conscience. I 
honour it, but for picturesque description, I de- 
plore it. Still the influence is admirable. 

A lady asked me recently if I knew anything 
that would cure a liar. At the time I did not. 
Now I am convinced that archaeological research 
would do it. Though I regret that collar which 
Erin would remember so much better if it could 
see it at the museum — and nobody the wiser — 
still it is some consolation to know that the 
best and largest collection of gold ornaments in 
Western Europe is to be seen in Dubhn. In the 
early centuries Wicklow was rich in gold, and even 



190 HERSELF— IRELAND 

yet in the mountain streams an occasional unim- 
portant nugget has been found. There are many 
beautiful specimens of almost unalloyed gold in 
the cases: Tiaras, diadems, lunulse, hair plates and 
ear-rings, necklaces, beads, gorgets, and torques 
— I love torques because the Fairy Queen wears 
one of diamond dewdrops around her lily-white 
neck, and a golden lunula on her hair — bracelets, 
brooches, fibulae, and torques large enough to en- 
circle the waist, little trinkets and gorgeous gold 
balls — some of them larger than golf balls — strung 
together, and used by the Irish chiefs as collars 
for their coal-black steeds on coronation days or 
great festivals. Mr. Armstrong agreed cautiously 
that this theory of mine might be the case, but I 
could not get from him a definite admission. 

As late as 1810, when little was known about 
Irish antiquities, two beautiful torques were found 
by workmen digging in the Hill of Tara. They 
were evidently, from their unusual length — one 
was over five and a half feet long, and the other 
but an inch shorter — intended to be worn over 
the shoulder and across the breast, holding in place 
rich silk draperies. And these priceless treasures 
were hawked about the streets of Navan, and 
offered for three or four shillings as old brass, but 
even at this price no one would buy them. Luckily 
they were discovered by Lord Essex and later 
acquired by the Academy. 



THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 191 

What delightful object lessons are contained in 
a museum; it is an unforgettable kindergarten for 
grown-ups in the history of a people. Throughout 
the centuries it is apparent to the most casual 
observer that the Irish had, as they still have, 
hands. 

I asked Miss Carroll, a fashionable Fifth Ave- 
nue dressmaker, who were the best fitters after the 
French, and she said the Irish. Her head fitter 
was a Miss McKenna, to whom she paid a salary 
of fifteen pounds a week. And nowhere in the 
world is there more beautiful lace or embroidery 
made than in Ireland. The specimens in the mu- 
seum are very complete. Needlepoint, of course, 
is the richest and most difficult of the laces, and 
is a correct copy of old Venetian point. I have 
seen much lace in Venice, but never as beautiful a 
piece as the exquisite apron made at the Presenta- 
tion Convent of Youghal. It is a work of art, an 
ornament that a Queen might envy. Aprons are 
pretty things, and can be worn coquettishly or 
demurely according to the spirit of the wearer. 
The Baroness Burdett Coutts always wore a black 
silk apron in the afternoon. My aunt Patty 
Hynes wore one in the morning, and I remember 
Marie Tempest in a costume play, wearing a short 
velvet gown of grey and rose, and a lovely lace 
apron. The lace schools at the Presentation Con- 
vent and at Kenmare are both employing many 



192 HERSELF— IRELAND 

workers. Limerick lace — needle run on net — is 
not of great value, but it has a charming filminess, 
the advantage of being flattering and becoming, 
and is recently much improved by the use of cream 
thread on cream net. There are various specimens 
of this lace in the museum, both old and modern. 
A flounce made in the middle of the nineteenth 
century has an exquisite border with any number 
of different stitches, and the Carrickmacross lace 
of guipure and applique is very handsome. There 
is an Irish cut work — an applique of muslin on 
net — that is also extremely effective, and I am 
very fond of tatting — frivolite they call it in New 
Orleans — I remember as a child having an adora- 
tion for " Miss Jenny," a pretty young lady with 
thick brown hair, who made tatting with a mother- 
of-pearl shuttle. And I have never seen more 
lacey, exquisite frivolite than the many specimens 
in the museum. 

Irish crochet is said to be going out of fashion, 
but in countries with a warm chmate, like America, 
there is nothing that will take its place, withstand- 
ing as it does the onslaughts of the most vigorous 
washerwoman. I saw a new design, the Coxcomb 
pattern, in Killarney on a collar and cuffs, and 
they would have transformed the plainest linen 
frock into a thing of beauty. 

The old Irish needlework of the early nineteenth 
century is a marvel of beautiful, honest, pains- 



THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 193 

taking industry. It is solid enough to last cen- 
turies. The most elaborate intricate patterns were 
used, and the soft light cambric is made heavy with 
raised thick embroidery. Mr. J. J. Buckley 
showed me a number of blocks for handkerchiefs 
— when handkerchiefs were worn rather large — 
designed by an artist, and each handkerchief would 
have taken an interminable time to complete. 
Even yet with the modern Irish embroidery there 
is small economy of time in any of the designs. 
The Swiss are the people of all others whose 
patterns in embroidery are both saving of time 
and work. In all the centuries the Irish have 
been adepts with the needle. The embroidery 
dress of Cuclinlainn, who lived in the middle of the 
nineteenth century, was that of an artist. He 
wore a soft crimson tunic, with a gold-worked 
brooch at his breast, a long-sleeved fair white 
linen kirtle, and a white hood enriched with em- 
broidery of gold. And I am sure he had blue 
Irish eyes, raven-black hair, and was good to look 
upon. 

Old Irish musical instruments, harpsichords 
with thick ivory keys and smooth inlays of brass, 
graceful quaint guitars, and narrow violins display 
the most exact and delicate workmanship; and 
the Irish pipes, long and graceful with their ivory 
and silver fittings are things of real beauty. I 
have heard a blind piper play them, and they are 



194 HERSELF— IRELAND 

wilder and yet more soft than the Scottish bag- 
pipes. It was my good fortune to get a rare old 
coloured print from Miss Eleanor Persse of an 
Irish piper, and it was so exactly what I wanted 
that it seems ahnost a gift from the fairies. 

The form, ornamentation, design, and colour of 
old Irish silver can all be studied at the museum. 
Why is it that old silver has a more bluish tint, 
and is not so fiercely brilHant and glossy in polish 
as new silver? The potato — or dish rings — are 
very distinctly Irish, and are so many and varied 
in design that it would be difficult to choose a 
reproduction of one among them. Johnson copies 
them with exactitude. I like myself the one of 
1770 ahnost better than any of them, with the man 
in a tunic among the roses. A dish ring sur- 
mounted by a black Wedgwood bowl filled with 
yellow jonquils is a lovely combination of form 
and colour. The loving-cups are also very beau- 
tiful. Instead of the conventional christening-cup, 
I have just sent Alma Lucy — my most recently 
acquired God-daughter — a copy of an old Irish 
loving-cup. She can comfortably grasp both han- 
dles for drinking her milk, and later on she can 
fill it with shamrocks. 

Every day the good workmanship and fine de- 
signs of old Irish silver are more appreciated, 
and the commercial value increases. Mr. S. J. 
Phillips of New Bond Street, London, whose 





< —I 



?! '^ 






5Q 






THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 195 

father and grandfather before him were experts 
in silver, recently acquired four potato rings which 
he valued at two hundred pounds each. He said 
they were not the best specimens, and a few years 
ago he could have sold them for a less price. 

With Mr. Westropp, one of the first authorities 
on glass in Europe, making additions to the speci- 
mens of old glass — more particularly Irish glass — 
the collection in the museum is very complete. 
Glass was made in Ireland as early as 1525. In 
1729 the Dublin Journal advertised, " At the 
Round Glass-House in Mary's Lane, Dublin, are 
made and sold all sorts of fine drinking glasses, 
salvers, baskets with handles and feet for dessert, 
fine salts ground and polished; all sorts of de- 
canters; lamps, etc., and for the encouragement 
of dealers it is proposed to sell them much cheaper 
than they can import them from England or 
elsewhere." Possibly the " baskets with feet " are 
the salad bowls which are so rare and highly prized 
to-day. 

" Sold by Hector ye glassman to . . . Oct. 
19, 1622. Bunches of glass at XXVs per case." 
In 1781 Irish glass was exceedingly popular in 
America. " Bunches of glass " from Waterford 
and Cork were exported to New York — " decan- 
ters " — I saw a decanter of Waterford glass in 
Charleston, South Carolina — " tumblers, wine- 
glasses, punch glasses, liqueur bottles, gerandoles, 



196 HERSELF— IRELAND 

chandeliers, lustres " — my father bought a pair of 
lustres made in Cork, in New Orleans — " celery- 
bowls, salad and sugar bowls, butter coolers, cream 
ewers, custard and jelly glasses, candlesticks, 
pyramids " — we had a pyramid, whether it was 
Irish glass I do not know; it consisted of three 
tiers, the bottom one much larger than the top, 
of plain glass cut in a thumb-nail design at the 
edge. And each tier held glass cups of the same 
fashion. This pyramid occupied the centre of the 
table for parties. The cups, filled with custard, 
were heaped high with whipped cream and jelly. 
And we had a lovely large pickle urn, and a celery 
glass with a square base and a lip turned over the 
top, so I never see Irish glass that it does not 
give me a picture of the Old South. My mother 
seated at the head of her table, before a japaimed 
tray gay with flowers and the cups of sprigged 
china, a monster sugar bowl of cut glass, which a 
negro handed to the family and guests that they 
might generously sweeten their own tea; a dozen 
different kinds of bread and cakes, and best of 
all, open-hearted, lavish hospitahty — now, alas, 
only a memory of the past. 

In Miss Persse's lovely old shop across the 
street, there is a certain salad bowl with a square 
base. It greets me as I enter the door; I often 
touch it with tenderness and my lips say, " Isn't 
it lovely, I wish it were mine," but my heart 



THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 197 

says, "It is a reminder of my childhood, of my 
mother, of my Aunt Polly Hynes, of the old 
dining-room with its six windows all open, and the 
scent of roses and jessamine in the air; so can a 
bit of glass conjure sweet memories. I wonder if 
the tall candle shades, quite two feet in height, 
of plain or cut glass, that were used on the bal- 
conies to guard the lighted candles — they were 
called oilindieres in New Orleans — could have been 
made in Ireland. In form they curved inward at 
top and bottom, and outward to the centre. Occa- 
sionally a pair are to be found in the South but 
they become more rare each year. A friend in 
Georgia has eleven old Irish cut-glass syllabub 
cups, handed down from her great-grandmother. 
Syllabub can only have its proper flavour if 
served in glass. I have never partaken of it in 
England, but it is still popular in my beloved 
South. Uncle Remus, the old darkey made im- 
mortal by Joel Chandler Harris, said to the little 
boy who brought him from " the big house " a 
dainty supper sent by Miss Sally, " What's dis 
here. Honey, is it sillybug? " 

" Yes, Uncle Remus, I think it is." 
" Den I don't lak it, my chile. When you 
gimme foam gimme foam. When you gimme 
whiskey gimme whiskey." 

This is one of my favourite quotations; like 
Uncle Remus, I desire the definite. Do not give 



198 HERSELF— IRELAND 

me the froth of love or friendship ; give me the sub- 
stance. 

As happened so often, England with heavy 
taxes killed the glass industries in Ireland, but 
there is no reason why they should not be revived, 
with Muckish Mountain mainly composed of beau- 
tiful white sand, and white sand in Coalisland, and 
in Donegal, any number of factories could be 
started, and the beautiful models and drawings of 
good old glass are at hand. The great glass manu- 
factories in America should secure all of the old 
Irish models possible and reproduce them. Miss 
Persse, an authority on glass, always has lovely 
pieces, and there are drawings of good decanters 
and tumblers, bowls and other objects obtainable 
at the Museum. I saw two American candle- 
sticks on simple lines, at Mrs. Hanney's — the wife 
of George Birmingham — they looked well on each 
side of an old mirror. The specimens of Irish 
tapestry in Dublin — which is being so well re- 
vived by the Dun Emer Guild — are very well 
preserved. The Defence of Londonderry, and the 
Battle of the Boyne, in the Old Parliament house 
— The Bank of Ireland — retain their smoothness 
and brilliancy of colour, to a remarkable degree, 
and there are probably existing a good many 
pieces of Irish tapestry assigned to English and 
French artists. There are two effective and suc- 
cessful examples of the Dun Emer tapestry in the 



THE TREASURES OF IRELAND 199 

museum. One is a copy of Flemish verdure of 
the sixteenth century, and the other is a small 
panel. The border of acorns and oak leaves is 
broad and free, and the centre, a background of 
trees with doves and an owl in the branches, a 
peacock and a raven standing on either side of an 
allegorical figure in rich robes, is a bold and deco- 
rative piece of work. 



CHAPTER XI 

THE NATIONAL GALLERY 

" You can catch more flies with a spoonful of 
honey than with a quart of vinegar." This was the 
much advocated proverb of William Dargan, the 
son of a farmer, who became a great engineer, and 
subsequently was one of the largest capitalists of 
Ireland. It was through his munificent generosity 
that the people of Dublin held the Exhibition of 
1853. Queen Victoria offered him a baronetcy 
which he refused; perhaps with wisdom, as in that 
case the statue which stands at the entrance to the 
National Gallery would have borne his title, Sir 
William Dargan, instead of the one word, " Dar- 
gan," which now excites interest and curiosity. 
We would have been congenial spirits, this great 
man and my humble self, for I too know that more 
flies are to be caught with honey than with vinegar. 

Going into a grocer's shop in Grafton Street 
this morning with a very little honey I caught a 
fly, and the wherewithal — a pound of sugar — to 
catch more. 

" Can you let me have a little sugar? " I asked 
the salesman. 

" Impossible, Madam, we have no sugar in the 

200 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 201 

house. You must get it from your regular 
grocer." 

With great meekness I said, " You are my regu- 
lar grocer; I have been getting biscuits and fruit 
from you all the winter." 

" You shall have a pound of sugar, Madam, and 
more if you want it," he said. 

And then I went to the National Gallery, and 
stepped lightly on the grass, as I paused a mo- 
ment to say good-morning to Dargan before 
spending some hours with the pictures. 

As I looked around the portrait gallery, it 
seemed to me that people of the eighteenth and 
nineteenth centuries were more beautiful than 
people of the twentieth century. The features of 
the faces were more regular, the expression was 
agreeably contemplative, and there was an air of 
refinement that is absent in the present-day por- 
traits. Or were the portrait painters more willing 
to subjugate themselves to their sitters? Now 
individuahsm must be expressed at all costs. An 
artist looks upon a portrait not so much as a like- 
ness as a startling revelation of his own individu- 
ality and that of his model. A sculptor moulds 
the head of a distinguished man into a double- 
chinned, tumouresque-eyed, somewhat human- 
looking tortoise, and the world of art pronounces it 
full of rugged strength and originality. To 
accentuate the animal in grotesque protuberances 



202 HERSELF— IRELAND 

of flesh or otherwise, is the refuge of the artist 
who is unable to penetrate the divine spark in 
man, the soul. This, Gilbert Stuart, our Ameri- 
can artist, who painted a goodly niimber of ladies 
and gentlemen when he made a stay in Ireland, 
has aceompHshed in his revealing portrait of 
Grattan. 

There sits the man, distinguished in appearance 
and in mind. The face is long, and the nose deli- 
cate. The red-brown eyes of quick affection and 
understanding look with a quiet humour upon the 
world. The curhng hair is a russet grey, and he 
wears a folded stock of white and a black velvet 
coat with a high collar. He was then of middle 
age, but clearly on the way " to learn the secret " 
— although it was later that he wrote; 

" Solitude is bad. I have tried Tinnahinch for 
twenty years. It leads to a sort of madness. 
You think of your vexations, your age. Society 
should always be in your power. An old man can- 
not enjoy solitude. He has learned the secret. 
He has found out the rogueries of Fortune. Nor 
will reading supply the want. I would Hve in a 
house full of society that I might escape from 
myself. I was called the Spirit of the Dargle. 
I found out that a man's worst companion is him- 
self." 

And if a lonely man is a sad companion for 
himself, it is a thousand times worse for a lonely 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 203 

woman — this I know — who has less independence 
of mind and action than a man. 

A second beautiful portrait by Gilbert Stuart is 
William Burton Conyngham. The warm brown 
and soft reds of the background, draperies, and 
costume are the colours of an American forest be- 
fore the trees of autumn shed their final leaves. 
The portrait of Miss Dolly Munroe, by Angelica 
Kauffman, dressed, as the novelists of the day 
would describe, " in some soft, clinging white ma- 
terial " — why always this uncertainty of stuff I 
know not, as there are in clinging materials, 
crepe de chene, chiffon, mousseline de soie, tissue. 
Georgette, and satin to choose from. — Probably 
Dolly's gown with a folded bodice, embroidered in 
gold, was nothing more mysterious than paduasoy 
or satin. With this she wore a blue scarf, and on 
the table at her side is a bouquet of roses. The 
young lady is a plump and pleasing person, with 
dark hair and candid eyes, but her counterfeit 
presentment by no means comes up to her own 
reputation as a resplendent beauty, followed by 
such hosts of admirers that she was obliged to walk 
at six o'clock in the morning in St. Stephen's 
Green to avoid them. 

Peg WofRngton, whose reputation as a great 
and moving actress has survised the centuries, 
must have been more beautiful in expression and 
animation than in regularity of feature, as the 



204 HERSELF— IRELAND 

lower part of the face is too slenderly oval for 
the broad brow. Dressed in black and silver, and 
wearing a quaint hat, as the dashing Sir Harry 
Wildairs — one of her favourite characters — her 
portrait is arresting and improves with acquaint- 
ance. Not far away the brilliant eyes of Gar- 
rick, whom she loved, and who jilted her, seem to 
look mockingly at her jaunty air. 

Near by is a better friend, the Countess of 
Coventry. A lovely woman, with soft black eyes, 
an arch face, and dark hair turned back from a 
pretty round forehead. She wears a gown of grey 
taffetas trimmed in many little rosettelike bows of 
pink satin. As the beautiful Maria Gunning, 
when for want of a proper court dress she could 
not be presented. Peg Woffington, noted for her 
generous deeds, sent not only to her, but to her 
sister, the regulation gowns. The beautiful Gun- 
nings made a sensation, became the toasts of 
Dublin, and from her many admirers Maria chose 
the Earl of Coventry and married him. 

Among the modern portraits the late Recorder, 
Sir Frederick Falkiner, in wig and splendid gold- 
laced gown, interested me; not so much pictorially, 
but from the complexity of his character. With 
an overwhelming desire to be sternly just, the 
interference of his kind heart made him liable to 
be more than merciful, and he was undone when 
it came to a woman's tears. A case came before 




The Piping Boy 
By Nathaniel Hone 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 205 

him of a man who was accused of being a gar- 
rotter. The circumstantial evidence was going 
against him, and the prisoner and his wife who 
was in court, knew there was a possibihty of con- 
viction and penal servitude, as the judge had 
determined to put down the horrible crime. 
When things were looking serious the wife turned 
to an eminent barrister and said, " For the love of 
God, say somethin' for him, your honour." 

The barrister answered, " If a man in a wig 
and gown were to address the Judge, my good 
woman, he would probably be hanged." — Judge 
Falkiner was extremely strict on such points. — 
" Speak to him yourself. He won't hang you." 

And the woman called out, " Judge darlint, 
listen to me. He's the best of husbands, he's the 
best of fathers, 'tis not him that's done the gar- 

rottin', Judge dar " " Silence in the Court," 

shouted the surprised clerk. The Judge, visibly 
affected, looked kindly towards the woman, but 
the next witness by very damaging evidence was 
evidently alienating his sympathy, when the man's 
wife whispered to the barrister, " Now, your hon- 
our, what's to be done? " 

" Sob," said the barrister, " and keep on sob- 
bing." 

" Did you see the prisoner that evening with 
a cord in his hand?" questioned the opposing 
counsel. 



206 HERSELF— IRELAND 

A loud sob completely drowned the answer of 
the witness, and the woman amidst alternate sobs 
and groans called out, " If so be he had anny 
cord, himself was bringin' it home for me laundry 
wur-ruk. And now from that little kindness 
what's to become of us all! " 

The Judge's eyes filled with tears, he cleared 
his throat, wiped his glasses with his pocket hand- 
kerchief, and summed up the case, saying the 
evidence only showed the prisoner had been led 
astray, that it was not strong enough to convict 
him, and with a caution the man was dismissed. 
As they walked down the street the woman was 
overheard saying to her husband, " Ach the poor 
craythur, there should niver be a thrial before 
him without a woman superintendin' it, an' if you 
betray his trust, Michael, I'll take a hand in gar- 
rottin' meself, an' 'twill not be far from home 
naythur." 

Sir Frederick Falkiner was not unlike a popu- 
lar Governor of Texas who, at the end of his 
term, was said to have completely emptied the 
jails of prisoners through the tears of their women- 
kind. 

The portraits of Balfe, Maclise, and Lover 
make them all very handsome men; the smaller 
portrait of Lover as a youth is a mellow and 
charming drawing by himself. A later one of an 
aristocratic man of thirty-five or forty is when 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 207 

he had attained fame as a novehst, poet, painter, 
and musician. A httle drawing of Mrs. Norton 
with long eyelashes and a regular profile looks as 
though she had stepped from a book of beauty. 
A sketch made during the trial of Robert Emmet 
bears a striking resemblance to Sir Henry Irving. 
The death-mask above it looks more like Sir 
Henry's gifted and lamented younger son, Law- 
rence, who with his wife Mabel was drowned off 
the Coast of Canada when the Empress of India 
went down. Lady Irving is an Irishwoman, this 
may account for the likeness of the Irving family 
to Robert Emmet. The death-mask of Wolfe 
Tone has the same fine aquiline features. There 
is a certain Dante-esque type of face which be- 
longs to the dreamer, the poet, the man of visions, 
the man of sacrifice, and the fanatic. Lord Ed- 
ward FitzGerald looks much too human and too 
genial for the part he played. His sympathetic 
eyes were a deep blue, his lips were full, as of one 
who enjoyed laughter; but the dark Rosaleen 
made him her own, and he died for her. 

The drawing of James Clarence Mangan, by 
Sir Frederick W. Burton, after his death, is of 
touching and perfect beauty. The old adage, 
" Beauty is but skin deep and ugly's to the bone," 
is a plain way of saying that great beauty depends 
upon correct bone structure. There are people 
who in youth have the beauty of flesh, and colour, 



208 HERSELF— IRELAND 

and skin; it passes, flesh sags, skin withers, colour 
fades, and in old age there is nothing left to 
attest to the rosy past. But a beautiful skull 
endures to the end. The head of Mangan is 
slightly raised, the curling hair has fallen back, 
and every line of the face is revealed, the broad 
brow, the fine nose, the lips apart — which retain 
a little of their recent suffering — are softly 
moulded, and the refined chin and thoughtful, 
sunken temples surmount disease and death, and 
still remain beautiful. What is more saddening 
than beauty and tragedy linked together by the 
iron hand of circumstance? 

A more cheerful subject is Robert Jackson's 
portrait of Thomas Moore, who looks clean, fresh, 
and wonderfully well dressed for a poet. The 
face, with a shortish nose, sympathetic eyes, a 
handsome, humorous mouth, and a jovial dimple 
in the chin, is most agreeable. Sir Martin Arthur 
Shee has also painted a delightful portrait of 
Moore, in a deep -red velvet coat and a high white 
stock. 

The portrait of William Carleton, a writer 
who has given me infinite pleasure, is not unlike — 
with his high, dome-like forehead, and ruddy coun- 
tenance — that blunt cairl Sir Walter Scott. Sir 
William Wilde with wide-awake, merry blue eyes 
looks as if he might be enjoying a witty paradox 
of his son, Oscar. 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 209 

A pleasing portrait of William Allingham, the 
writer and poet, brought to memory: 

" Four ducks on a pond, 
A green bank beyond, 
A blue sky of spring, 
White clouds on the wing : 
What a little thing 
To remember for years — 
To remember with tears ! " 

I too have a green bank beyond, to remember 
with tears. 

The portraits of Stella, which hang by a hand- 
some one of the Dean, are prim, with a forehead 
so high that I am sure it was supplied by the 
taste of the artist, and not by the unkindness of 
nature. 

A portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh shows him 
more magnificently dressed than his Queen Eliza- 
beth, who hangs by his side. He wears a corse- 
let and trunks of grey velvet completely covered 
in pearls. Years ago Bram Stoker described the 
costume of Wilson Barrett in Nero as " a low- 
necked, short-sleeved ' nighty ' made of emeralds." 

In the very complete Dutch collection of pic- 
tures there are any number of decorative por- 
traits. One of a young, fresh-faced girl — with soft, 
curling hair caught up at the back with pearls, 
and a gown of rich green silk, and well-placed, 
pretty hands — by an undiscovered artist is a 



210 HERSELF— IRELAND 

hauntingly charming picture. Miereveld's portrait 
of Elizabeth Brydges, painted about 1680, is as 
brilliant in colour as if finished yesterday. The 
face is coquettish and pleasing, the hair is dressed 
in curls, and from a pearl comb floats a fine gauze 
veil. The necklace and pearl-shaped ear-rings 
are of pearls, and the costume, a thing of endur- 
ing beauty, is of cream silk, brocaded in small 
flowers of brown and red, with the large sleeves 
spHt and bound in scarlet velvet to show the 
richly embroidered muslin underbodice. The 
scheme of colour is so gay and insistent that the 
picture is pleasantly unforgettable. In the same 
room hangs the head of a young white bull, by 
Paul Potter; as yet he is only a mischievous and 
sprightly young animal who has scarcely reached 
the age of adolescence, and is quite pleased at a 
delightfully decorative wreath of roses and jessa- 
mine round his neck. When my beloved grand- 
son was four years old he and my son were walk- 
ing through a field. A surly, sour-looking, un- 
decorated bull was in one end of it. 

" If that bull attacked us, would you defend 
me? " asked his father. 

"I would," said my grandson; "but — what 
about me? " 

I am hoping from this pertinent answer that 
logic will always be dominant in his mind. 

George Moore admires and enthusiastically ex- 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 211 

plains his admiration of Nathaniel Hone's " Sleepy- 
Pasture at Malahide," a lovely warm summer day, 
of intense blue sky and drifting white clouds, with 
cattle lying down in a lush green field, too lazy to 
get in the shade of a long, still wood in the back- 
ground. " The Piping Boy," like a little Pan, 
with his flute and fur mantle, is the son of an 
earlier Nathaniel Hone who died in 1784, a por- 
trait painter of Dubhn who did much brilliant 
work, but nothing better than this bright-eyed, 
eager boy. Another picture which arouses the 
enthusiasm and eloquence of George Moore — 
and he has floods of it at his disposal — is Millais' 
large canvas of " The Three Sisters." And as- 
suredly it stamps him as a genius, this page from 
the life of the handsome, comfortable, leisurely, 
fashionable Englishwoman of the sixties. The 
background is ablaze with flowers, the furniture 
is fine, and the young ladies seated at a card-table 
are elaborately coiffed, and more elaborately 
dressed — all alike — as was then the fashion among 
sisters. The faces of the two ladies looking up 
are reserved and somewhat expressionless, as was 
the mode of the well-bred young woman of the 
day. The one who looks down at her cards might, 
if she looked up, have " a mutinous smile." With 
the change of fashion comes a change of smiles. 
Girls of the present day " smile daringly." Crino- 
lines required demureness, and there never were 



212 HERSELF— IRELAND 

such wide-spreading, willowy, billowy crinolines 
as the three sisters wear. They surge together 
under the table like sea waves at high tide. And 
the dresses of dove-grey silk, draped in a thousand 
folds, and looped with deep rose-coloured ribands, 
were evidently the chef d'oeuvre of " a Court dress- 
maker " who lived in Hanover Square. It would 
interest me to know just how many yards of silk 
were used to clothe and drape those tall young 
women. I am like Father Healy, who asked an 
Evangehcal tailor, firm in the belief that no 
Catholic read the Bible, how many yards it 
would have taken to make a pair of breeches 
for the big angel of the Resurrection, who 
stood with one foot on sea and the other on 
land. 

A young woman of undoubted good looks was 
making an excellent copy of Jan Steen's " Village 
School." We had some talk together, and she said 
it was a man's picture, as they so often stopped 
to look at it. Only her candid, innocent eyes kept 
me from smiling. Is there anything so attractive 
as perfect unself -consciousness ? I am going back 
before the picture is finished, for she looks so like 
one I knew and loved; so sweet, gay and witty, a 
painter, too, who died too young to make a name. 
As I look at my catalogue, I see it was published 
in 1914, when Sir Hugh Lane was director of 
the Gallery. What a tragedy his death has been, 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 213 

not alone a loss to Ireland, but to the whole world. 
His ambitions were exalted, but with his strong 
will and power of self-sacrifice, he could have car- 
ried them out. He had a steady goal to reach, 
and neither extravagance nor self-indulgence 
would have made him loiter by the way. He in- 
tended making the National Gallery in Dublin 
one of the first galleries in Europe, and the first 
stones were laid with II Greco's great Francis 
of Assisi, and the splendid portrait of a lady 
dressed in rich red and gold brocade, by 
Veronese. 

The Gallery with its already fine collection and 
his additions would have attracted visitors from 
all nations, and their pilgrimage, extended to other 
parts of Ireland, would have added material bene- 
fit to the country. 

The pity of his death! And yet the vital influ- 
ence of Hugh Lane can never die, but will ever 
abide to incite men to generous deeds and kindlier 
actions. 

There is no place in Ireland that seems to me 
more historically interesting than Trinity College, 
with its traditions, its atmosphere, and its impos- 
ing appearance. The courts, which are equally 
beautiful in the grey days of winter, or with their 
noble outlines more defined by the clear skies of 
summer. The students, crossing and re-crossing 
the square, each man wearing his gown with a 



214 HERSELF— IRELAND 

characteristic difference — jauntiness, studiousness, 
carelessness, carefulness, gracefulness, awkward- 
ness, courage, and shyness, a respect for habiliment, 
and an utter indifference to it are all expressed by 
the manner in which men wear their gowns. The 
long, oak dining-hall, with portraits of great men 
who have shed additional lustre on old Trinity by 
their honourable careers. In one corner the little 
pulpit from which Dean Swift preached his ser- 
mons is now used by the Senior Scholar to say 
grace before dinner. The theatre, so fine in pro- 
portion, and such a pure and beautiful example 
of Adam decoration, and the splendid library — 
the long, lovely Queen Anne Room with its pun- 
gent leathery odour from books upstairs and books 
downstairs. Books on shelves standing away from 
the walls. Books on shelves that are on the walls. 
Books on screens. Books in cases which can be 
seen through glass. Books so precious that not 
only glass but curtains protect them. Books little 
and books big, books old and books new, three 
hundred and fifty thousand in number, and yet 
people — mea culpa — continue to write them. To 
vary the monotony there are other treasures, the 
stoutly built Irish Harp of Brian Boru, the veri- 
table, the well authenticated " Harp that once 
through Tara's halls the soul of music shed " — 
but no longer on Tara's walls — after many vicissi- 
tudes is carefully preserved in a glass case and 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 215 

pointed out to visitors as, " 'is 'arp 'and with 
hevidence that none can ginesay." 

" From what part of London do you come? " I 
asked. 

" Battersea, Lidy, that was me 'ome but hi've 
hved in h'lreland thirty years." 

And not even Brian Boru has made any im- 
pression on his accent. Heaven send that we may 
not be in for a thirty years' war. Cockneys have 
risen in my estimation since Irish soldiers declare 
them to be among the best fighters at the 
front. 

Among other treasures of Trinity is the largest 
gold fibula ever discovered; eight inches long, 
and of great weight, it must have been worn by 
a dressy Irish giant. But, after all, the most 
wonderful of Trinity's treasures is " The most 
beautiful book in the world." When I knew that 
I was actually to have the curtain drawn aside, 
the case unlocked, and to hold the Book of Kells 
in my hands I set about making a ritual of the 
occasion. My finger-nails had never been profes- 
sionally manicured, that should be done; the most 
expensive savon de parme procurable in Dublin 
should be used with the lovely Dublin water to 
wash them, and they should be covered with fair 
white gloves ; for surely this one Book of the World 
deserved much honour. The reasons of its being 
the Book of Books are Inspiration — Design — ■ 



216 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Colour — and Execution. The original and fruitful 
designs embody much that is used in Celtic art. 
The graceful trumpet pattern. The ingeniously- 
interlaced curved bands, the intricate knot design 
formed of eight lines, and quaint patterns derived 
from angels, men, birds, blossoms, flowers, foliage, 
fish, reptiles, serpents, and monstrous and imagina- 
tive animals. All these illuminate and illustrate 
the Four Gospels. The first thing that strikes the 
eye is the daring combination and jewel-like depth 
of colour. Black, blue, green, yellow, purple, sky- 
blue, dull green, and lilac jostle each other, form 
vivid contrasts, and yet seem to melt into a har- 
monious whole, while the absence of gold, glitter- 
ing in other missals, is never felt. The steadiness 
of the hands who made these unrivalled wonders 
was so unerring the design might almost have 
been cut out of copper, filled in with colour, and 
transferred to the vellum, for there is no slight- 
est deviation in these numerous intricate and deli- 
cate lines, and the sureness of touch is almost 
superhuman. Well might Gerald Plunket write 
of this treasure, " This work doth passe all men's 
coyning, that now doth live in any place I doubt 
not anything but that ye writer hath obtained 
God's grace." And, indeed, the book seems not 
only to have been written and illuminated by one 
who obtained God's grace, but to have received 
Divine protection in escaping destruction and 




The Village School 
By Jan Steen 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 217 

mutilation during the unending incursions and pil- 
lage of many centuries. This famous manuscript 
was the property of the last Abbot of Kells, Rich- 
ard Plunket, who surrendered the monastery to the 
Crown in 1539. Shortly after that date Gerald 
Plunket was evidently guardian of the book. 
Bishop Usher acquired it in 1621, and after his 
death it was transferred to the University Library, 
Trinity College. 

Besides the most elaborate caligraphy ever pro- 
duced, there are Charters in the Irish language 
giving grants of land from King Melaghlin of 
Meath to the Abbey of Kells, between a.d. 1024 
and the twelfth century. They are of special 
interest, being the only deeds in the Irish lan- 
guage dating from before the Norman Invasion. 
Sad to relate, even this precious book, after escap- 
ing the Norseman and Dane, has suffered from 
an iconoclast of a bookbinder, who about a hun- 
dred years ago actually " trimmed " many of the 
beautiful margins out of existence, cutting the 
priceless leaves of vellum ornamented with rare 
and unique embellishments to a conventional size. 
Knowledgeable authorities all differ as to whether 
the book belongs to the sixth or the ninth century, 
and neither the particular version of the scriptures, 
orthography, pigments, ink, or wonderful illus- 
trations have decided the vexed question. But, 
except to a few scholars who devote themselves to 



218 HERSELF— IRELAND 

these subjects, what does it matter? Among the 
missing leaves, one of them probably contained the 
name of the incomparable artist, v/ho is now only 
known as " The Great Man." His work and pages 
surpassing all the rest are of supreme value, and 
even the loss of the colophon has its advantages 
as it gives the imagination full play. 

I have made for myself the picture of a young 
monk with a noble head, his black hair grows on a 
peak on his forehead, his face is lean with aquiline 
features, his spiritual eyes are deeply blue, he has 
the smile of a boy sweetening his stern lips, and 
even with his extreme youth there is a look on his 
face of quiet, determined patience. The patience 
of one who loves his work. He wears a white 
wool habit, girded about the waist with a cord of 
emerald green, and he sits in the monastery by a 
great window opening very wide, looking towards 
the fair hills of Ireland. When he dips his brush 
on his palette piled with rich colours — malachite, 
lapis lazuli, velvet black, purple, orange, or sky- 
blue — and begins to paint, the strokes are so 
precise, so fine, so delicate, so daring, and yet so 
marvellously sure, the work seems almost super- 
human. His hands are a strange combination of 
the artist and the athlete, possessing both muscu- 
lar strength and suppleness. He is apart from 
other men, this beautiful boy; almost a demi-god. 
Perhaps his food is brought to him, as it was to 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 219 

Buddha, by a happy mother whose sweet voice 
tells him it is: 

" The milk of a hundred mothers, newly calved. 
And with that milk I fed fifty white cows, 
And with their milk twentj-five, and then 
With theirs twelve more, and yet again with theirs 
The six noblest and best of all our herds." 

And nourished upon the poetry of curds and 
cream, that is how The Great Man wrote the 
Great Book of Kells. 

It remains even to-day an inexhaustible inspi- 
ration. And designs suggested by it are found 
on the covers of books in every library in the 
world. I saw it taken downstairs for the night, 
and placed in a strong iron safe. And by walk- 
ing quickly reached the Shelbourne in time for 
tea with Captain Miracle, a trench mortar man 
who has earned his title, brave lad, by being blown 
up forty feet in the air and coming down alive 
two fields distant from where he unconsciously 
started. The men on either side of him were blown 
to atoms; such are the accidents of war. 

"Where have you been all day?" he asked. 

" To Trinity College," and then I told him of 
my little ritual, and he said, " Madam, allow a 
Trinity man to thank you. I spent all my youth 
at Old Trinity." 

" Your youth! How old are you now? " 



220 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" All of twenty-three, and maybe twenty-four 
and maybe not. I go back to France to-morrow." 

" Oh," I said, looking at his boyish face, and 
a dimple that appeared and disappeared in his 
cheek, " how sorry your mother must be to have 
you go back." 

" She is," he said; " so is my father, particularly 
as I am an only son, but I've always taken 
chances " 

*' I can see that," I said; "your coat with its 
devices seems to be a sort of map of the 
War." 

" Yes," he said. " Beginning with the Royal 
Dublin Fusiliers, there's a lot of things on it." 

"What's this, aD.S.O.?" 

" Yes, that's it, in spite of our fellows threaten- 
ing to kill me," he said, laughing. " You see a 
trench mortar man is not popular. He sends off 
a mortar, the Germans instantly retaliate with 
another, which deals death and destruction. Our 
men, when they see me coming, say, ' If you don't 
take that damned thing away, we'll shoot you.' " 

" And what do you do then? " 

" Sometimes I move on and give the boys a 
chance," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. " Per- 
sonally I think condensed milk and army grub are 
worse than bombs. Especially the milk. After a 
week of it, I don't care whether I live or die, and 
you can take it from me that many a man has won 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 221 

the Victoria Cross from the desperation engen- 
dered in his soul by condensed milk." 

How often since that gay, young, debonair, 
devil-may-care, happy warrior went away I've 
thought of him. And sometimes — for I am the 
mother of an only son — I've prayed for him. 

One can spend days in Trinity; it stirs the 
imagination. But, after all, the pride and glory 
of Dublin is her splendid Park. When the haw- 
thorn is in bloom, and nearly two thousand acres 
of trees white, pink, rose, and red are ablaze with 
myriads of sweet flowers, then Phoenix Park is as 
beautiful as cherry blossom time in Japan. Each 
tree becomes a giant bouquet, vying with its next 
door neighbour in extravagant loveliness. The 
air is sweet with perfume, and the emerald green 
grass is brilliant in patches of colour from the 
fallen leaves. Its historical interest: the Fifteen 
Acres — an Irishism as they are really two hundred 
acres — where famous duels were fought, the Vice- 
regal Lodge, the Wellington Memorial, the Maga- 
zine Fort, even the " Furry Glen," a golden, gorse- 
clad hollow earlier in the year, with its deep pool, 
sink into insignificance in this lovely kingdom of 
Flora. For the finest of man's deeds are as noth- 
ing when nature makes a supreme effort, as she 
does when hawthorn blooms in June. 

When there was a lull in my sight-seeing and 
I began to be lonely, Kitty and her trousseau 



222 HERSELF— IRELAND 

arrived from London. It was not a wedding but 
an " on leave " trousseau, prepared to dazzle the 
eyes of William when he came from the front. 
William is Kitty's fascinating, inconsequent, en- 
thusiastic, optimistic, Australian husband of Irish 
descent, and my friend, but he had not got his 
leave. So Kitty gave her fetching frocks an air- 
ing for my benefit. Nature has been kind in giv- 
ing her a slim figure, a pretty face, and what is 
of greater value even than beauty, individuality. 
Her hair, eyes, and eye-lashes are velvet black ; her 
skin is cream white, and she has a little impudent 
nose which contradicts the softness of her eyes. 
Her voice is soft, too. And she gives the impres- 
sion of helplessness and leisure, but contrariwise 
is capable and industrious, being an excellent 
cook, — she learned her art in France, — and house- 
wife. Since the war began she has been a faithful 
V.A.D. doing any jobs assigned to her willing 
hands, responsible for the big dining-room of a 
Hospital, or, when necessary, changing about to 
night nursing. With no leave for a year I 
thought she ought to rest, but action rests the 
young. An hour after her arrival we were career- 
ing out to Donnybrook in a jaunting-car, and she 
was using her patriotic, persuasive powers to get 
the strong young jarvey to enlist. He told her that 
he could not fight for England, that her English 
heart could not understand his Irish heart. 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 223 

" But," she said, " I gave my heart to an 
Irishman when I married him. He's in 
France now, in the Great Push, fighting for 
his country." 

" He may be that, he may be one of thim Irish- 
men — God help thim — with two countries. As for 
me, I've only got wun; that's Ireland, and here I 
stay wid her." 

" Even so," said Kitty. " You are not a Sinn 
Feiner, are you? " 

" I will show you, Lady," said the young man, 
and turning back his coat, we saw that he wore 
the badge of green, yellow, and white on his 
breast. 

" Oh, dear," said Kitty when we went to our 
rooms to dress for dinner ; " and I thought I could 
do some recruiting over here." 

" Wait," I said, " until we get into the country, 
perhaps you will have better luck there, though I 
fear not; it's too soon after the rebellion." 

As the days went on, Kitty began to be 
anxious about William. She got no letters, as he 
may be described as a delightful but intermittent 
correspondent. When a William look appeared 
on her face to distract her attention I would say, 
" don't regret the black and white lace gown," — 
sometimes her conscience gave her pricks — " you 
can always have it made over, and it's awfully 
becoming." 



224 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" I wish William would write," Kitty would 
answer with a sigh. " Did you see the papers this 
morning; the great push going on and Billy in 
the thick of it." 

" But you say yourself he's always lucky." 
" He is, but why doesn't he write? " 
" He is busy intriguing about his leave." 
Kitty would smile. "And he'll get it; there's 
nobody like Billy; he does whatever he undertakes, 
and he makes every other man seem tame and 
dull, but I do wish he would write." 

When war was declared, William sailed for 
Austraha, and got a commission in the Australian 
Field Artillery. The statue of his father, born 
in Australia of Irish parentage, has not been 
placed in St. Paul's without reason, as the Right 
Hon. W. B. Dalley was the creator of the system 
by which Colonial troops take part in England's 
wars. In 1884, following on the fall of Gordon 
at Khartoum, he cabled an offer of Australian 
troops to the Home Government. In the interval 
between the issue of the offer and its acceptance 
he was subjected to bitter criticism on the ground 
that he was wantonly laying the colony open to the 
humihation of a refusal. The conditions in those 
days were vastly different to those which obtain 
now. A large party in England held the view 
that the colonies were an encumbrance to be got 
rid of, and a liberal Government was in power at 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 225 

the time. Moreover, Dalley had made, with Irish 
daring, the offer without even consulting his col- 
leagues in the Ministry. There were proposals 
that he should be impeached. But the offer was 
accepted. A thrill of pride and delight surged 
through the country at the knowledge that it was 
to stand beside Britain in arms. Talk of im- 
peachment dropped, the constitutional illegality of 
the proceeding was ignored, and Dalley became the 
most popular man in Australia, and was the first 
Australian member of the Privy Council. 

There was never a more gallant spirit than 
Wilham's. He has enjoyed every moment of his 
life. Even when luck has been against him his 
optimism has never deserted him. His enthusiasms 
are splendid, his appreciations are generous, his 
interest in other people so absorbing that he is 
never unhappy. He trusts fate, and considering 
how often when she has talked common sense to 
him he has tweaked her nose, she has been good 
to him. For this reason he feels that he is not 
only safe from the arrows of outrageous fortune, 
but even from bullets. 

One morning Kitty came to my room looking 
radiant, and instead of " I wish Billy would write," 
it was, " Billy has written ; shall I read you his 
letter?" 

" Of course," I said, laying down my paper, 
which contained an overwhelming page of casual- 



226 HERSELF— IRELAND 

ties. " Sit down and read me the longed-for 
letter." 

"In the Field^ 
"" Wednesday 26.7.'16. 
" My Dakling, 

" I yesterday got yours of 19.7.'16. While I 
remember it, will you tell me if you got my two 
photographs by Lekegian, of Cairo? — one of them 
displayed my beautiful field boots. Also, will you 
tell me if you got a small bunch of six or eight 
snapshots? In one of them I was about to dive 
into the Little Bitter Lake at Ismalia, and there 
was another with some Turkish prisoners. I sent 
all these things ages ago from Egypt, but as noth- 
ing seems to have got through the post then I fear 
they were lost. 

" I have asked for leave from August 5th, en- 
closed is a copy of my application. I may get it. 
I think rather more likely than not. I have also 
asked for permission to have my batman with me. 
He is Gunner Potts from Wagga Wagga, and he 
is the most perfect thing in the entire army. We 
will all stop at Holland's in Half Moon Street — 
the place Ernest used to have. That at least is 
my suggestion, unless you want to stay somewhere 
else, in which case we will go where you like. You 
talk of my coming over to Dublin, but you don't 
seem to realise the time it would take, and that 
one watches every second of one's leave as greedily 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 227 

as a miser watches his gold. Our time is taken 
from the moment we leave Boulogne (or Le 
Harve, as the case may be), and I shall be bitterly 
grudging every second lost on the boat and in the 
train. Why can't you get Mrs. T. P. to come 
over? We will have a glorious week in London, 
and she would love Potts. All meals will be at 
the most expensive restaurants, and will consist 
of the most costly foods obtainable. Theatres 
every night and cabs everywhere. I am craving 
to see the amusing people again — Derwent Wood, 
Augustus John, Evelyn, and the rest. I see 
Hugh Wright is playing at the Comedy, by the 
way. 

" Talking of your friend Barry O'Brien, I went 
for a ride yesterday afternoon with the Padre, and 
in a town hereabouts, the name of which I may 
not give, he bought a book by O'Brien — The Life 
of Lord Russell of Killowen. Just afterwards I 
got your letter, and will show it to the Padre when 
next we meet. The book, I beheve, is quite a 
famous one. 

" I had a glorious bit of shooting yesterday 
morning — one of those beautifully finished pieces 
of work that sometimes come off in sport and that 
one always remembers. The sort of thing that 
dear old E.G.M. would have loved. Nominally 
I was doing what is known as ' registering a 
target,' but actually I was conducting what in 



228 HERSELF— IRELAND 

the old days would have been known as a heavy 
bombardment. Thanks to the Daily Mail's cam- 
paign and the consequent plethora of shell we can 
do this kind of thing now, and thousands of lives 
are thereby saved. One bit of trench that I was 
dealing with lent itself to enfilade and — largely 
no doubt by luck, but also partly by skill — I man- 
aged to land an H.E. (high explosive) shell right 
in the trench itself. Up in the air went great 
masses of earth, timber, and sandbags, and if 
somebody wasn't killed — well, the Bosh wasn't do- 
ing his duty. The trench should have been well 
filled, because he had no warning that it was going 
to be fired on. It was simply a lucky shot which 
had been carefully worked out with pencil and 
paper beforehand, and that fact, plus the beau- 
tiful laying of the Australian gunners, did the 
trick. 

" The worst of gunnery is that you rarely see 
the results with your own eyes. In that respect it 
resembles my practical joke on Horace Friend. 
But in both cases the results were equally inevi- 
table. As I couldn't actually see one dead Bosh I 
didn't get the shell case for you, but you may 
nevertheless regard yourself with reasonable certi- 
tude as the possessor of more than one cadaver. 
The case of the first shell I fired I have kept as 
promised, and you shall have it when I come over. 
It would make a very good gong. 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 229 

" I have heard some yarns of the Germans since 
I have been here — my knowledge of French plus 
my natural taste for talking to the peasantry have 
been helpful in that respect. The Bryce Commis- 
sion's report is only a modest statement of the 
awful facts. When the original British Army 
came through here the German, if he was able to 
get hold of a wounded British soldier, used to 
hury him alive. I have it from a perfectly re- 
liable old peasant woman, who is so steeped in 
horrors that she no longer detects sensational- 
ism in her story, and who has seen the thing 
done. 

" One of the most amusing things I have heard 
about them happened in a little humpy in which 
I have been sleeping the last few days. In this 
place they tried to bayonet a dove, and having 
failed to spike him, one of them took him out of 
his cage, and using him as a cricket ball threw 
him at a tree trunk. The bird was removed in a 
fainting condition by the old woman who owns 
him, and is still alive. In fact he lives in a cage 
just over my sleeping valise, and makes night so 
intermittently hideous with his croonings, flirtings, 
and gurglings, that I often feel as if I would like 
to have a cut at him myself — you know perhaps 
that these birds go on worst of all at night. Well, 
these Boshes affected to regard the absurd bird as 
a carrier pigeon, though, as the old woman help- 



230 HERSELF— IRELAND 

lessly observes, ' il ne salt pas meme volerf which 
is perfectly true, as the dove had never been out 
of a cage in its hfe. These doves are all the go 
hereabouts — practically every jeune fille has got 
one, only one and never two, which is perhaps what 
makes the birds so lonely and complaining; the 
sight of them appears to have lashed the Boshes 
to fury. 

" I am saving up all the cash possible for a burst 
in London, and then you can probably swindle 
me out of all you want. By the way, there are 
some things I must buy there for the winter fight- 
ing: a stove, a bridle, a small quantity of port wine, 
a brace of wire-haired fox terriers, a telescope, etc., 
etc. Also I want to get one new uniform ordered 
the day I land, as my present ones are getting 
shabby. I think I shall go to Tanty, as he makes 
the best breeches in the world. 

" I am sending this off by means of the Brigade 
Padre, who seems a reliable person to whom to 
entrust a cheque. I can only say do not be anxious 
about me for a moment. If ever safe and reliable 
warfare existed, this is it. I cannot say any more, 
of course, but you need not worry — believe me seri- 
ously when I say this. I got a letter a few days 
ago from dear old E. G. M. It was dated Febru- 
ary 3rd. He said that he thought we had them 
' held safely ' here. As compared to the actual 
facts, it seemed like a joke. The wretched Bosh 



THE NATIONAL GALLERY 231 

is simply non est. He is, as Evelyn used to say, 
' augespielt.' No more now, darling, as the 
Padre can't wait. I will really try and write 
again to-morrow. I am afraid I may be unable 
to get away first week in August. Read a beside- 
the-leader article in the D.M. of August 7th, called 
' Hefty Annie.' It is about a gun, and although 
it refers to a 15 -inch, it gives you some idea of 
things in a general way. Tell E. G. M. I am com- 
ing over, and persuade dear little Mrs. T. P. to 
come to London. No more, sweetheart, except 
best love in all the world, and do write often. 

" From 
" Bill." 

'^'If ever safe and reliable warfare existed 
this is it/ 

" There speaks the unquenchable optimism of 
the Irishman, and five columns of casualties in 
to-day's paper! " 

" That's William all over, and do you think," 
said Kitty anxiously, " that we will have to take 
Potts of Wagga Wagga to the theatre with us? " 

" Not at all," I said; " Potts will probably much 
prefer a boxing match, and being ' the most unique 
thing in the Army ' doesn't make him eligible 
socially. StiU, I am almost as sorry not to meet 
Potts as to miss William." 

" I'll write and tell you about him," said Kitty 



232 HERSELF— IRELAND 

gaily. " And now that Billy will get his leave, I 
think we should really be moving on. It would be 
well to see something of Ireland, wouldn't it? " 

" Yes," I said, " we had better leave Dublin to- 
morrow for Cork and Killarney." 



CHAPTER XII 

CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 

The weather was so perfect, with its long warm 
days of sunshine and soft air, that we prolonged 
our stay in Dublin, and even after we were packed 
remained on, loath to go; but finally on a brilliant 
afternoon we started for Cork. 

Travellers will tell you everywhere in Ireland — 
even people who practise economy — that it is im- 
possible to travel third-class, but we did not find it 
to be the case. What it might be in winter, with 
the carriage windows all closed, I do not know ; but 
occupants of third-class carriages are more amus- 
ing than those who travel first-class, more natural 
and communicative. They talk to each other, they 
talk to you with greater frankness, and present a 
better opportunity of studying character. 

We had provided ourselves with books, but it 
was not long before a pleasant faced young man 
in Irish tweed and a gay necktie handed me the 
evening paper and began a conversation. He was 
a commercial traveller, and I am sure is worth his 
weight in gold to his firm, for never in the whole 
course of my life have I seen such tremendous 
unself -conscious confidence. He had no more idea 

233 



234 HERSELF— IRELAND 

of class distinction than a kangaroo. I take it that 
to those hopsome creatures a duke or a dustman 
are ahke. At first the conversation was general 
between Kitty, the young man, and myself, and it 
concerned hotels. His manner was just as free, 
and he was quite as much at ease, and as full of 
personal questions, as if I had been Mrs. Moriarty 
who kept a little vegetable shop in Camden Street, 
and pretty, well-dressed Kitty my assistant. He 
asked our names, our nationalities, our religion, our 
occupations, our experiences in the past and plans 
for the future, what we paid at the Shelbourne 
Hotel for our rooms, what they furnished us with 
for breakfast, dinner, and supper, to what hotel 
we were going in Cork, and he strongly recom- 
mended another for one-third of the price of the 
Imperial. He gave us as an example of economy 
a week of his life in London, where at one 
time, when he was hard up, he had lived on five 
shillings. 

His questions reminded me of the paper served 
to aliens on their way to America. Though an 
American of many generations — my ancestors 
fought in the war of Independence — having mar- 
ried out of my country, in the eyes of the law I 
am an alien. Crossing very often I have answered 
these questions until they have become boring and 
monotonous. My last voyage I neglected the 
paper until the purser came to my stateroom and 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 235 

said, " I must beg of you to answer these ques- 
tions." 

" I am not well enough," I said ; " will you 
kindly answer them? " 

" But I do not know your age? " 

" You can politely guess at it," I said, and 
nothing could have been more polite than his 
reckoning. 

"What is your height?" was his next ques- 
tion. 

" I have been," I said, " five feet three, but since 
the day before yesterday, when Crippen was exe- 
cuted and described as that height, I have changed 
to five feet four." 

" And your complexion? " 

" Aquamarine. As the darkies say, I have been 
* Splimmy Splammy ' ever since we left the dock 
at Tilbury." 

The purser gave up in despair, went off with the 
paper, and filled it up with proper respect to Gov- 
ernment rule. 

This young man's questions were much of the 
same order; by the time we reached Cork he could 
have supplied a very intelligent descriptive paper 
of Kitty and myself to the authorities there. 
Finally, Kitty buried herself persistently in a 
book, and he was left entirely to my tender mercies. 
I think I bore with him on account of his generous 
smile, and strong, even, white teeth. Good teeth 



236 HERSELF— IRELAND 

are always a recommendation to my favour. I 
remember years ago at the time of a general 
election I warmly recommended to Mr. Par- 
nell two young Irishmen for important con- 
stituencies. 

He turned gravely to Justin McCarthy and said, 
" What especial qualification have these two gen- 
tlemen for Parliament? " 

" None," said Justin, " that I know of, except 
they both have very fine sets of teeth." 

And remembering strangely assorted, middle- 
aged Parliamentary teeth, my recommendation 
was not at all a bad one. 

My young friend of the teeth asked a thousand 
questions about America, and I strongly advised 
him to go there without delay. In all my travels 
I have never met any one so eminently suited to 
my democratic country. He will need no introduc- 
tions. He can never be snubbed. His genuine 
interest would penetrate the strongest reserve. 
His good humour is imperturbable. And his 
smile will disarm the grumpiest pessimist that ever 
lived. 

We stopped at a wayside station, and Kitty 
had barely ejaculated, " I have had enough of that 
young man," when he appeared with his confident 
smile, and a tray which bore two steaming cups 
of hot tea, and plates of cake and bread and 
butter. 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 237 

" Here's some refreshment for you, ladies," he 
said. 

Then Kitty forgave him for putting her through 
the third degree, and I was really quite sorry when 
the time came to say good-bye. 

It gave me a thrill to hear the porter call out 
" Cork! " for what place in the world is more asso- 
ciated with song and story? It was too late to 
do anything but go at once to the hotel and dine. 
The dinner was excellent, and the strawberries 
were in perfection. The south of Ireland must be 
particularly suited to the growth of fruit. The 
waiter was a tall, thin man with a finely modelled 
ascetic face, not unlike Sir Forbes Robertson. He 
told us he had spent all his life in Killarney, but 
had been forced by the war to come to Cork as 
many of the hotels were closed, and that Southern 
Ireland was almost destitute of visitors. He had 
left his wife and eight children behind him, and 
as soon as travel began he would return. We 
afterwards went to the hotel in Killarney where 
he had been employed for many years, and they 
told us there he was one of the most notorious and 
daring poachers in the country, having been ar- 
rested several times. Anything more unlike a 
preconceived idea of a poacher than this refined, 
gentlemanly looking, soft-voiced, deferential waiter 
it would be difficult to imagine. He was also a 
famous dancer, and in the winter time had a 



238 HERSELF— IRELAND 

class for teaching children the old Irish folk 
dances. 

About nine o'clock there was a rush of hurried 
footsteps on the street, and cries of " Up with 
the rebels! Up with the rebels!" but nothing 
further occurred. Cork is indeed unafraid to call 
herself a rebel city. In the centre of the town 
we had passed a large monument called the Mar- 
tyrs' Memorial. It is erected to the three Fenian 
prisoners whose execution aroused the sympathy 
of the whole civilised world, including many Eng- 
lishmen. Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien were Cork 
men who stopped a prison van and rescued two 
leaders of the Fenian movement, and though 
weighted with chains they got away and sailed 
for America. But by mischance a police sergeant 
who was in the inside of the van was shot. The 
whole country at the moment was at fever heat; 
five men were sentenced to be hanged, and others 
condemned to penal servitude. Even a man who 
was merely looking on at the fray was sentenced 
by an outraged judge and jury to be hanged; 
luckily the sentence was rescinded before the exe- 
cution took place. 

Captain Edward O'Meagher Condon, an 
American citizen and an ex-officer of the Civil 
War, would have been executed but for the pro- 
tection of the United States. On his reprieve he 
returned to America, and I met him several times 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 239 

in New York. He seemed a quiet, cultivated 
gentleman, and for a long time I knew nothing of 
his sensational career. It was Captain Condon 
who, when his comrades were hanged, sobbed out 
in tones of deep tragedy, " God save Ireland ! 
God save Ireland!" The crowd mechanically re- 
peated the words, and finally they became the 
slogan of the Irish Nationalists. The words in- 
spired T. D. Sullivan to write the song " God 
Save Ireland," which is now set to music and sung 
all over the world. It is played as a march by 
Irish bands, and many brave Irishmen have fought 
and died for England, inspired by the strains of 
that martial air. 

The next morning was one of glorious sunshine, 
so I suggested to Kitty that as Queenstown was 
always described as a depressing place, to see it in 
pleasant weather would be advisable, therefore we 
had better take an early train and come back by 
boat. The distance is so very short that Cork and 
Queenstown are practically the same place. 

The Lord Mayor of Cork is Admiral of Queens- 
town, and there is an old and picturesque custom 
connected with his office. Once in three years he 
sails to Queenstown, and when the boat anchors 
near the headlands, he flings a dart far, far out 
to sea. This proclaims his Admiralty. 

When we arrived the Cathedral's new chime of 
bells were ringing silvery peals, and we stepped 



240 HERSELF— IRELAND 

proudly to " Let Erin Remember," and more 
sedately to " The Harp that Once Thro' Tara's 
Halls." " The Last Rose of Summer " sounded 
sweet high above our heads, and when we entered 
the Cathedral, Gounod's " Ave Maria " helped us 
to a reverent frame of mind. 

God is never lonely in Ireland. He is never 
neglected. Here abides His Kingdom, and His 
subjects are ever in communion with Him. From 
early morning, when the portals of the churches 
are opened, until late evening, the people kneel, 
and with full confidence, pour out their hearts to 
Him. Joy, sorrow, success, defeat, doubt, despair, 
or victory are all laid at His feet. God is not only 
to be worshipped as a Divine Being, He is loved 
and appealed to as a Father, and trusted as a 
wise and helpful Friend. And if there are any 
latter-day saints, they are to be found in Ireland. 
While the subjects of the King, poor, cold, hun- 
gry, broken-hearted, and despairing, with blanched 
lips can whisper, " Thy will be done," it is not 
difficult to believe in the beatification of the human 
being of to-day. 

It was almost midday and yet there were a num- 
ber of people scattered over the church lost in 
prayer, and we saw a small, dark, rough head pass 
by, as a very small boy, not more than five, found 
his way to the High Altar. He made the sign 
of the Cross, remained for a time saying his inno- 




Harpischord, Mahogany, with Ornamental 
Brass Mountings 

Bv Ferdiimiid Weher, Duhlin. Tlie property of Robert W. Smythe, Ksq. 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 241 

cent prayers, then turned and smiled. I think he 
knew that we were strangers, and it was a little 
smile of welcome. 

After seeing the Cathedral, a triumph of Pu- 
gin's architecture, we walked down the hill to the 
Place of Embarkation, where millions of Ireland's 
people have sailed for different ports. England 
reproaches Ireland with a long memory, but how 
can any country forget " State-aided Emigration," 
when Great Britain offered five pounds a man to 
banish her Irish subjects. And it was even worse 
after the famine, when thousands of poor peasants 
were transplanted to a land which required the 
unbreakable spirit of the pioneer to wrest from 
it any success. Many of them had never seen a 
town of even nine thousand inhabitants. Some of 
them only spoke Gaelic. A good many of them 
could not read. They were simple, primitive, agri- 
cultural tillers of the soil. What could they find 
to do in New York, Montreal, or London, with 
no money beyond the price of their passage? 
Herded together in the lowest quarters of the big 
towns, they were like lost sheep, and as easily influ- 
enced as children, their sweet, simple, kind, and 
generous natures were transformed and contami- 
nated by vicious associations. It was not long 
before they were contemptuously spoken of as 
" the low Irish." In new, hurried, busy countries, 
where every man is for himself, the cause of their 



242 HERSELF— IRELAND 

tragic downfall was never considered. These poor 
aliens no longer prayed that: 

. " The merciful Word. 
The singing word. 
And the good Word. 
Be for evermore the only heritage of men and women of 
Erin." 

They were far from the land of their birth, sepa- 
rated from her for ever, and many of them were 
rendered desperate by despair. Mr. Labouchere — 
could he have been a relation of my friend Labby, 
who was always a loyal friend to the Irish — plead 
their cause in the House of Commons as early as 
1848, and called the attention of England to their 
horrible condition, and unfitness for transportation. 
Carrying the plague with them, they died by thou- 
sands, both on board the ship and after their 
arrival. On the long voyage many families were 
swept out of existence. Children arrived without 
fathers and mothers, and numerous little babies 
whose names were unknown were handed over to 
the authorities. Altogether, seventeen thousand of 
these poor emigrants perished in this dreadful 
exodus. Since then emigration has never ceased, 
until now the whole of Ireland has a trans- Atlantic 
mind, and after the War, again Ireland's sons and 
daughters will sail to new and freer lands. 

There is no lovelier spot than Queenstown; it is 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 243 

beautifully situated on the hills, with its feet 
bathed in the blue river and the blue sea. But 
there can be no sadder place in all the world than 
the Place of Embarkation, saturated as it has been 
with the tears of those who keened the departure 
of their dear ones going to far-away lands. How 
agonising must have been their heart-broken cry, 
gathering force until it sounded far out to sea, as 
the ship gradually faded out of sight. To those on 
board, the Cathedral and its glittering spire pene- 
trated even through the thick mist of their tears. 
Did the fathers think of this when they built it, 
and say we will raise a Tower of Faith even 
though it be a Tower of Tears; but the Tower of 
Faith will sweeten the Tower of Tears and keep 
our people unforgetting. 

The sloping hill and the little shops were more 
cheerful. From one, a blue-eyed baby toddled 
unsteadily but joyously towards us. 

"Come back!" her mother called. "She's the 
bouldest colleen in the town. Look at the bould 
eye on her. Let go the lady's dress wid your fists, 
you." 

On the strength of the " bould eye " on her we 
bought papers of lemon drops and molasses candy. 
The young, dark, pretty, Italian-looking mother 
said the baby was always laughing and gay, and 
fearless and trusting of strangers. 

" She do be takin' the hand of anny that comes 



244 HERSELF— IRELAND 

along, and I'm afraid of me life that wun day some 
one will be walkin' off wid the likes of her." 

" I could walk off with her now," I said, " if 
you'll give her to me." 

*' Oh, no, lady, she's the first. I can't give 
that bould wun away." 

A little lower down the street was a shabby, 
dusty, pell-mell, miscellaneous, crowded window 
of various objects, where a treasure might be dis- 
covered, and indeed was discovered. Only I did 
not bear it away. I have taste and appreciation of 
curios, but no really serviceable knowledge. The 
find was an old glass vase, in shape something like 
a Brobdingnagian tumbler; it was engraved by 
the hand of an artist, in landscapes, little villages, 
and churches with spires, and the price was only 
ten shillings. Kitty, who has excellent taste, urged 
me to take it; she even offered, and it was a bona 
fide offer, to carry it herself back to Cork. 

" It is lovely," I said, " and I daresay I'll regret 
it afterwards." And I did, for later when stay- 
ing with Nita Shannon we motored to Queens- 
town, and I went back to the shop and the girl 
priced the vase at three pounds. 

"But when I was here before you told me it was 
ten shillings." 

" Yes," she said sweetly, " I know I did, but me 
mother was away, an' I was only guessin' at the 
price," 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 245 

"What," I said, "are you guessing at to-day? 
I will buy it." 

She showed me various bits of china, but her 
guesses were as extravagant as if she had been a 
dealer in Wardour Street, and I left regretting my 
lost opportunity. 

Kitty, that memorable day, bought a valuable 
copy of The Decameron with a good old binding, 
and we looked over it on the boat. The little 
steamer gurgled as she wheeled about, and we 
began to sail by softly wooded slopes, and old 
houses painted red, yellow, white, and blue, twin- 
kled like jewels in the strong sunshine. They 
appeared such pleasant, peaceful homes close to 
the water, with flower-beds of roses. And such 
roses — pink, and white, and cream, and yellow, 
and scarlet, and wine-red, and little chmbing roses 
of vaulting ambition reaching as high as the 
roof. 

When we left the boat, and for the last few 
miles changed to the train, a nice little withered 
old lady, like a healthy winter apple, got into our 
carriage carrying a lovely bouquet of thick- 
leaved roses, perfect specimens of the Queen 
Mary, William Allen Richardson, and Abel Cha- 
teney varieties. She was a stranger to us, we had 
not even spoken to her, and yet my sixth sense, 
which often surprises me, told me that those roses 
would be ours. Presently she remarked amiably 



246 HERSELF— IRELAND 

that it was *' a pleasant day," and Kitty, in a white 
gown with an open neck, said " Glorious," and 
the old lady admitted with proper clothes that it 
might be, but the long spring had discouraged her 
in providing a summer outfit, and now with sudden 
tropical heat, much too warm in serge, she was 
hoping to find a ready-to-wear frock at some of 
the shops in Cork. A black mushn if possible, with 
a pin spot of white. Her granddaughter would 
meet her at the station, it was for her she had 
gathered the roses. It seemed my sixth sense had 
failed me, which it rarely does after an active 
manifestation. 

When we arrived at the station the lady solici- 
tously pointed out our tram, and we thanked her 
and said farewell. We loitered, looking in shop 
windows before turning into St. Patrick Street. 

" It is a fine street," I said to Kitty, " but I 
cannot quite agree with the Cork man who said, 
* St. Patrick Street is the finest thoroughfare in 
all Europe, barrin' the bind in it.' " 

And then who should we meet nearing " the 
bind," but our trim old friend wearing a dotted 
black and white mushn: not only had her desire 
materiahsed, but she was arrayed in it. She 
seemed pleased to see us again, nodded, smiled, 
stopped, and held out the flowers to Kitty. 
"Won't you ladies have these roses? My grand- 
daughter did not meet me after all." Then my 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 247 

sixth sense leaped for joy, and said, " Take that 
pink blossom, leave the blush coloured one for 
Kitty, it matches her beads, and never doubt me 
again." 

"We must now," I said, "find Father Ma- 
hony," which was a trifle difficult as I had forgot- 
ten the name of the church, and could only ask 
where Father Mahony was buried. Several people 
didn't know, and had never heard of him. 

" Perhaps," I said, " we should have asked where 
Father Prout is buried," for Father Mahony as- 
sumed as a nom de plume the name of a quaint 
old priest who once lived in the flesh, and was the 
figure of many an amusing story. One of them 
I am sure is true, for to this day the Irish are 
particularly fond of statuary. 

While Father Front's friend. Father Rufus, was 
studying for the priesthood in Rome, Father 
Prout made him a visit, and seized the occasion to 
expend a subscription contributed by his parish- 
ioners for an altarpiece. He spent days in going 
to artists and dealers in marbles, but found noth- 
ing that he liked, until one afternoon in a state 
of great satisfaction he begged Father Rufus to 
go with him and see his choice. 

"Good heavens!" said Father Rufus; "that is 
a Diana ; you can't have it." 

"Yes, I can," said Father Prout. "I don't 
care what it is, it's lovely, and I'll have it. Those 



248 HERSELF— IRELAND 

chaps of mine at Ardnagehy will never know the 
difference." 

Father Mahony, better known as Father Prout, 
was somewhat unconventional. The Jesuits at one 
time repudiated him, they did not care for his 
hght-hearted contributions to literature; but he 
remained true to his rehgion, and died in a monas- 
tery. There was a time when I thought " The 
Bells of Shandon" poetry; people demand better 
things these days, and smile in a superior manner 
at: 

*' With deep affection and recollection 

I often think of the Shandon bells — 
Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhood 

Fling round my cradle their magic spells ; 
On this I ponder, where'er I wander. 

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee." 

Finally we did find St. Anne's, and an obliging 
young woman insisted on our listening to " The 
Bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on the 
pleasant waters of the river Lee." And then we 
climbed to the top of an adjacent hill to see the 
panorama of Cork, and were rewarded by a very 
beautiful view. The Lee runs through the fair 
green valley, surrounded by softly rounded hills, 
which are covered with roads, and built over with 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 249 

houses. We walked along the Mardyke, the 
afternoon was warm, and we were glad that it was 
well shaded by trees. We saw no salmon leap, but 
there were salmon in the river; and despite the 
War there was a variety of shipping. The pic- 
turesque quays lie through the town. 

I had worn Cork serge in London; every thread 
of it was wool, and it felt so pleasant and agree- 
able to the touch that I wanted to see the woollen 
mills at work. They seemed prosperous, and 
have no difficulty in finding a market for their 
wares. 

Whenever we stopped to ask our way about, we 
found the people most amiable and communicative. 
Their speech is made benign by the hospitable, 
soft, full, round brogue of Cork, and they struck 
me as much more Irish than the people of Dublin. 
They have the reputation of being quick-witted, 
and quick at repartee, and the children in the 
schools are said to be remarkably precocious. 

Cork is proud, and justly so, of the number of 
eminent writers, artists, and composers whom she 
has sent into the world. Fraser's, Blackwood's, 
and Bentley's, the three leading magazines of 
their day, owed much of their success to the bril- 
Hant articles of Doctor Maginn, Francis Mahony 
(Father Prout), and Machse, who was not only an 
illustrator, but wrote clever verse and prose. 
Sheridan Knowles, the dramatist, was the author 



250 HERSELF— IRELAND 

of a number of plays. I saw The Hunchback, 
when a little girl, in New Orleans; and John Mc- 
Cullough thrilled my young heart and touched me 
to tears in Virginius. It is a fine dramatic play 
for a robust actor, and would do well on the 
cinematograph. Thomas Crofton Croker has 
written many books of charming Irish fairy lore. 
Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South have 
been translated both into German and French. I 
saw a prettily illustrated volume years ago in 
Baden-Baden. Richard Alfred Milhkin was a 
musician, painter, and writer, but he never left 
Cork. John Augustus Shea was a writer and poet 
of note. John Francis Maguire, a prolific writer, 
was editor of the Cork Examiner, William 
O'Brien's novel. When We Were Boys, was of 
such absorbing interest that I sat up until two 
o'clock in the morning reading it. And he has 
written other novels, reviews, articles, essays, and 
verses. 

And dear Justin McCarthy, what a splendid 
literary career he left behind him. A long list of 
novels, delightful books of history — what can be 
more entertaining than The History of the Four 
Georges and A History of Our Own Times. And 
no novel ever gave me more pleasure than Dear 
Lady Disdain. I was very young when it ap- 
peared in monthly instalments in The Galaxy, an 
American magazine, long since dead. I did not 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 251 

dream that in the future the author would prove 
one of my most valued friends, and stand in place 
of my own father, when I married T. P. in St. 
Mary's, Father S cole's little church in Horse- 
ferry Road, now demolished, and the parish trans- 
ferred to the Cathedral. 

Stephen Foreman, who belongs to a later gen- 
eration, is a versatile writer of prose and poetry. 
" The City of the Crimson Walls " is a fine poem, 
and The Errors of Comedy is a good novel. T. C. 
Murray, the dramatist, is a still younger man, and 
has undoubtedly a promising career before him. 
Birthright is almost too sincere a tragedy; it car- 
ries with it such sad and bitter conviction. Mrs. 
L. T. Meade, the author of Scamp and I, The 
Medicine Lady, and many other novels, sheds 
lustre on Cork. 

Beautiful Kathleen Cecil Thurston, best known 
by her novel of John Chilcote, M.P., was a Cork 
lady. The Rev. Lewis Macnamara wrote Blind 
Larry, and Other Tales — beautiful little studies of 
Irish peasant hfe. And there was John Paul 
Dalton, who wrote a highly dramatic poem, " Sars- 
field at Limerick," and other poems and various 
essays. William Buckley is an author of note. 
Croppies Lie Down was exceedingly clever; and 
Mrs. Hungerford, the author of Molly Bawn, 
April's Lady, and a large number of spirited 
novels has won for herself a world-wide reputation. 



252 HERSELF— IRELAND 

S. Lennox Robinson, the author of The Cross 
Roads and other plays, is a young and clever play- 
wright. The late Rev. Patrick Sheehan has 
written a number of very popular and original 
novels. Then there was John Fitzgerald, Bard 
of Lee, and various minor poets and writers who 
have shed a milder but no less pleasant lustre on 
Cork. 

Among the artists from Cork there are James 
Barry, Daniel MacHse, R.A., Alfred Elinore, 
R.A., Samuel Ford, who gave great promise but 
unfortunately died at the early age of twenty- 
three. Richard Lyster, a musician as well as 
artist. James Cavanagh Murphy, who wrote bril- 
liantly on architecture. Albert Hartland, a beau- 
tiful landscape and water-colour painter, entirely 
self-taught; and Wilham Linden Casey, a water- 
colour artist of great merit, admired by Ruskin, 
taught King Edward VII drawing. Thomas 
Hovenden is a Cork man, whom America partly 
claims as he began his art career in New York, and 
almost all his subjects are of life in America; 
and WiUiam Magrath, though born in Cork, has 
also made his career in America. Thaddeus, a 
handsome and agreeable man, is a distinguished 
portrait painter and has painted many Royalties. 
Charles Mclvor Grierson was born in Queenstown, 
and there are Eugene McSwiney, James Griffen, 
Samuel Wright, Hugh Charde, and Sir Egerton 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 253 

Coghill. Seamus O'Brien, a young sculptor of 
decided promise and a playwright as well, has 
chosen San Francisco as his place of abode; and 
William Barry, a successful portrait painter, is 
now claimed by America. 

A number of well-known musical composers 
were born in Cork. Almost every Southern girl 
has sung, " We May Never Meet Again," by 
Louis Blake, who lived in New Orleans, and 
"Maid of Athens," and "When We Two 
Parted," by Henry Robinson Allen. I heard 
Sims Reeves sing " I Watch for Thee in Star- 
less Night," by Alexander Roche, at several con- 
certs in London. And Matthew O'Riordan wrote 
a great number of ballads that were extremely 
popular in America. When I was a gay uncon- 
scious seventeen, with all of love before me, I used 
to sing with — possibly — heart-breaking pathos, 
" My Dream of Love Is O'er," and now indeed 
that it is o'er, I haven't the voice to sing about 
it. Poor young man, he was said to have written 
the appealing ballad to a faithless sweetheart, 
which only made it more fascinating. Louis Gar- 
ret, the organist of St. Luke's, Cork, is a very 
gifted musician and composer. I heard a lovely 
song of his at one of the popular concerts in 
London. 

So with writers, artists, and musicians, Cork has 
indeed a goodly roll of honour, and there are, as 



254 HERSELF— IRELAND 

always in Ireland, invisible claims connecting them 
with America. 

The old curiosity shops of Cork are filled with 
objects of interest. At one of them I was lucky 
enough to find a charming coloured print of Mrs. 
Jordan, who made her first appearance in Dublin 
in 1777, in the part of " Phoebe " in As You Like 
It. She was a beautiful Irish girl with blue eyes 
and a dewy skin, who captured the heart of the 
Duke of Clarence, heir to the throne and after- 
wards William IV. Mrs. Jordan bore the King 
ten children, who were known by the names of 
Fitzclarence. Her five daughters married two 
earls, the youngest son of a duke, a general in the 
British Army, and a baronet. The King, who 
loved his children, gave Colonel Fitzclarence, his 
eldest son, one of his own titles, the Earl of 
Munster. 

William's memory would have been held in 
greater respect if after a life of simple domesticity, 
which lasted for so many years, he had upheld his 
morganatic marriage with the faithful companion 
of his youth and the mother of his children. At 
the end of twenty years he tired of her, and at his 
request she left him. He married the Princess 
Adelaide in 1818. 

The Chapel of Saint Finn Barr attached to the 
Honan Hostle, Cork, built under the cultured 
supervision of Sir John O'Connell, is one of the 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 255 

most interesting, if not the most interesting, church 
in Ireland, being not only perfect in taste but 
a comprehensive example of national art. The 
architect, the builder, carvers of stone, the design- 
ers, and makers of the stained glass windows, the 
weavers and workers of the tapestries, and binder 
of the missals, and the artist who made and 
enamelled the beautiful monstrance are all Irish 
men and women living in the country, and under 
the influence of Irish tradition in history and in 
art. The little church, a model of the best skill, 
craftsmanship, and resource of Ireland, is built of 
Irish limestone, in the Hiberno-Romanesque style 
of a thousand years ago. It is suggestive of the 
Irish and is purely Celtic in character. 

The outside of the building is dignified and sim- 
ple, the west doorway has been adapted from the 
chapel of St. Cronan of Roscrea; over it is placed 
the statue of St. Finn Barr, the work of Mr. 
Oliver Shepherd, R.H.A., and the interior deco- 
ration is impressive and harmonious. The altar 
possesses a simple satisfying dignity, being com- 
posed of one great slab of Irish limestone. Mr. 
Oswald Reeves, a master of his art, has contributed 
a most brilliant piece of enamelling for the altar, 
and the art of enamelling is nowhere better exe- 
cuted than in Ireland. The design of the floor, 
which is original in conception and warm in colour- 
ing, is a connecting note with the brilliant stained- 



256 HERSELF— IRELAND 

glass windows, and the Stations of the Cross. I 
could linger long before those glowing windows, 
the work of Mr. Harry Clarke (whom Canon 
Hanney declares a genius in stained glass) and 
Miss Sarah Purser, for they are not only fine in 
design and execution, but they picture the poetic 
miracles in the hfe of many Irish saints. 

St. Patrick, imposing in mitre and crozier, holds 
leaves of shamrock in his right hand, and his lips, 
slightly apart, seem to whisper his inspired prayer, 
those vigorous lines that embody all of Christianity 
in their strong appeal: 

At Tara to-day may the strength of God pilot me, 

May the Power of God preserve me, 

May the Wisdom of God instruct me, 

May the Eye of God behold me. 

May the Ear of God hear me, 

May the Word of God make me eloquent, 

May the Hand of God protect me. 

May the Way of God direct me. 

May the Shield of God defend me. 

May the Heart of God guard me. 

Against the snares of demons, the temptations of vices. 

The inclinations of the mind, 
Against every man who meditates evil towards me, 
Far or nigh, alone or with others. 

St. Brigid, that humble, chaste friend of the 
poor, but, nevertheless, a woman of capacity and 
energy, as the founder of a cathedral church at 
Kildare, bears her church in her hand. The caK 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 257 

which she succoured leans its little head against 
her arm, and there are suggestions of her many 
charities and miracles in the details of the win- 
dow. St. Finn Barr gives a fine note of colour 
robed in his splendid red chasuble, his uplifted 
right hand which has once touched the Saviour is 
reverently covered by a glove, but the radiance 
pierces through it. The beautiful border of this 
window is suggested by the hazel tree, which 
when blessed by the saint bore leaves, nuts, and 
fruit in mid-winter. 

St. Ita, a noble royal lady, the St. Brigid of 
Munster, is being presented by an angel with three 
jewels of great price, in appreciation of her love 
of the Trinity. 

St. Columcille, " the Dove of the Churches," is 
surrounded by the doves who brought him mes- 
sages of love from Derry to lona, the angel who 
daily whispered counsel in his ear is beside him, 
and his white horse nestles his head on the saint's 
shoulder. 

St. Fachtna, St. Declan and his miraculous bell, 
St. Ailbe who found a royal babe, the foster son 
of a tender-hearted mother wolf, St. Gobnet the 
patron saint of the bees, St. Carthage, St. Flan- 
nan, St. Colman, St. Brendan, and St. Mungret, 
all have beautiful commemorative windows of their 
lives and miraculous deeds in the hostel of St. 
Finn Barr. 



258 HERSELF— IRELAND 

The dominant note of colour in the furnishing of 
the church is a rich crimson. Miss Evelyn Glee- 
son, the founder of the Dun Emer Guild, has 
woven a dossal divided into four panels, each of 
them containing Celtic symbols of the four evan- 
gelists from the Book of Durrow. The background 
is a splendid red, and a beautiful border of Celtic 
work divides the panels and frames the dossal on 
the top and sides. Miss Gleeson is also responsible 
for an antependium of great beauty. The ground- 
work is dull gold embroidery, and the various 
sacred figures have been raised in thick embroidery 
in rich colours from the background. The vest- 
ments, among them a cloth of gold cope, chasuble 
and dalmatics, have been embroidered in the work- 
shop of Mr. Barry Egan in Cork. The other sets 
of vestments are made of the richest Irish pophns, 
and embroidered in Celtic designs. Miss Kelly's 
missal, a labour of love, is bound in scarlet mo- 
rocco, the vivid hue being controlled and softened 
by a border of soft olive greens outlined with gold. 
The high lights of the design are pin-pricks of 
gold and tiny pearls, which on close inspection 
prove to be the careful art of the designer ex- 
pressed in a cunning inlay of white leather. The 
Celtic cross in the centre of the cover unites and 
forms part of the border, and flashes of semi- 
precious stones, topaz, amethyst, and aquamarine 
in the centre of the Cross, give brilliance and finish 



CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 259 

to the completed design of a perfect piece of book- 
binding. 

Mr. William A. Scoti, Professor of Architec- 
ture in the National University of Ireland, fur- 
nished drawings for the Celtic designs of all the 
altar plate to Edmund Johnston, who has a well- 
deserved reputation for the reproduction of antique 
Irish silver. The monstrance of silver plated in 
gold and enriched with large cabochons of sapphire 
enamel is a remarkable piece of work. 

The creations of a nation reveal their character, 
and the Chapel of St. Finn Barr speaks more elo- 
quently than a hundred books for the artistic 
ability of the Irish people. 



CHAPTER XIII 

KILLARNEY 

A small share of anything is not worth much 
But a small share of sense is worth much. 

Old Gaelic Proverb 

I don't like martial law in summer. Particularly 
on a hot day when it has nothing to do but shoulder 
a rifle, look in my window, and make the lowering 
of my blind a sweltering necessity. Kitty and I 
had pleasant rooms at the Royal Victoria Hotel, 
" by Killarney's Lakes and Fells," but numerous 
tents and soldiers occupied the sweet green field 
enamelled with wild flowers, between the hotel and 
the lake. Troops were stationed at Killarney on 
account of its being a very dangerous part of the 
country, an incipient rising had been quelled and 
was still held at bay. As a matter of fact not 
a single shot had been fired. Not even a youthful 
Sinn Feiner had defiantly let off a fire-cracker. 
A woman who made beautiful crochet, of a design 
called the coxcomb pattern, said she hoped the 
Irish in America would send no more money to 
John Redmond and his followers, otherwise all 
was in order. But there was a large party of 
happy officers and men enjoying a timely hohday. 
Very likely a young officer with bathing, boat- 

260 



KILLARNEY 261 

ing, and fishing tendencies had bethought him of 
reporting an official riot, which included " explo- 
sions, detonations, and pistol shots," altogether a 
different thing from the real riot, and his vivid 
report necessitated troops. Real jolly playboys 
of the Army they were. Bathing in the early 
morning, and at odd times during the day. Play- 
ing cards and games in the afternoon. Singing 
" Tipperary," " Keep the Home Fires Burning," 
and " My Little Grey Home in the West," in the 
evening, and guarding with vigilance a lonely stile, 
which separated the adjoining field, where father 
donkeys recuperated from overwork, and mother 
donkeys looked after donkeens. 

The only really martial act I witnessed was 
an alert soldier prodding with his bayonet an 
ancient and obstinate ass, with no respect for 
martial law or military discipline, who would hang 
his head over that Sinn Fein stile. Naturally the 
windows of a hotel were more interesting than 
donkeys, especially when pretty Kitty was comb- 
ing her long black hair, so we had often to shut 
out the lovely view and cool air for modesty's 
sake. 

The officers were no less cheerful than the sol- 
diers. They were accompanied by their wives, 
who knitted and read novels during the day, looked 
pretty, and wore dressy blouses for dinner. One 
young bachelor, a good pianist, singled out the 



262 HERSELF— IRELAND 

best musical talent among the soldiers, reinforced 
it with local singers, and we had several open- 
air concerts which were appreciated except by the 
old donkey, who lifted up his voice in a pitiful 
wheezing bray of protest at the shrillness of the 
soprano and the die-away tones of the tenor. 

A very well-dressed young person imposed upon 
my inexhaustible well of creduhty by calling a 
young captain " Poppa." I naturally inferred 
that she was " Mrs. Poppa," and we became quite 
friendly. The relationship of " Uncle " fills me 
with suspicion. I have been deceived by several 
benign uncles with showy nieces, but the American 
" Poppa " — the lady was a hyphenated American 
— suggests the domestic husband and loving father, 
and only that the captain continually sought to 
talk to us — and preferably to Kitty — thus arousing 
the jealousy of the lady, who told me he was her 
" man," and they were to be married after the 
war, I should never have known they were not 
married already. Captain " Poppa " did not men- 
tion marriage to me, he only said he was going to 
the front and was certain to be killed. However, 
if he escapes shrapnel and bullet, he certainly will 
not escape matrimony. The lady's unintermittent 
will and silent perseverance are certain to con- 
quer his intermittent will and loquacious indecision. 

Sunday, a magnificent day of steady brilhant 
sunshine, turned the lake into a sheet of gold; and 



KILLARNEY 263 

I said to Kitty, who was always amiable and 
open to any suggestion, that it would be well to 
make the Grand Tour. The little low Victoria 
was quite comfortable, we saw the ruins of 
Killalee Church and Killalee House, and crossed 
the winding Laun at Beaufort Bridge. Even on a 
Sunday there were one or two fishermen there, 
though it was late for salmon, but trout are always 
to be had. We diverged a little to obtain a view 
of Dunloe Castle, a mountain stronghold of O'Sul- 
livan Mor which has been restored and made into 
a convenient residence. 

There are beautiful views of the lake from the 
Castle, but lovely as the day and the drive were, 
we looked forward eagerly to the Gap of Dunloe. 
How many pictures we had seen of it. Irish 
artists love its threatening gloom and shadows, its 
shifting clouds and changing atmosphere. My 
enthusiasm somewhat subsided, when I saw " the 
ponies " which turned out to be tall, raw-boned 
horses; but Kitty told me to " be a sport " and the 
guide to " lep up," so I mounted my roan, which 
was ambitious and insisted on keeping a little in 
advance of Kitty's large bay mare. And I found 
it distinctly trying when my animal decided, as he 
often did, on violent trotting. We soon left gentle 
and domestic scenery behind us, and although the 
sunshine continued uninterruptedly brilliant, the 
sombre and wild hillsides cast dark and heavy 



264 HERSELF— IRELAND 

shadows. We looked into the purple tarns and 
indigo-blue lakelets, and up at frowning precipi- 
tous mountains, and down fragrant precipices 
blooming in wild flowers. It was magnificent 
scenery, towering mountains and steep hills, for- 
ests and woods, streams and lakes; but it was all 
lonely. The silence environed us and shut us 
away from the world. 

Our first stopping-place was Kate Kearney's 
cottage, who was said to be a great beauty, and 
in the last century made and sold celebrated 
poteen. We refused to hear the echo, nevertheless 
we did hear it, and as long as soft-hearted Kitty 
dispensed at intervals various small coin it re- 
echoed. St. Patrick is supposed to have planted 
a plot of grass near one of the little lakes, and 
it is the greenest green grass and the most velvety 
that was ever seen, and almost miraculously, even 
in the coldest weather, its intense emerald hue re- 
mains unchanged. The black of the lake and the 
green of the sward, with the purple mountains 
above it, and the deep blue sky, made colour con- 
trasts so striking they would have satisfied even 
the most daring futurist. Our guides not only 
gave us a picturesque account of Kate Kearney, 
but beyond the two lakes of Cushvalley and 
Augher they singled out a little white cottage with 
a freshly thatched roof, described it as the former 
abode of the beautiful Colleen Bawn, " The Lily 



KILLARNEY 265 

of Killarney," and relying on our ignorance gave 
an optimistic history of the unfortunate girl, end- 
ing with her happy marriage to a princely gentle- 
man, and subsequent career as a lady of rank and 
fashion. The real story of John Scanlan, the son 
of William Scanlan of Ballycahane, a well-con- 
nected and well-to-do country squire, and the Col- 
leen Bawn was much more thrilhng and melo- 
dramatic. 

The young man had been an officer in the Royal 
Navy, was dashing and handsome with ingratiating 
manners, and he easily won the heart of Ellen 
Hanley, a peasant girl of sixteen, who, on account 
of her exceeding beauty, her lily-white fairness, 
and her braids of shining golden hair, was known 
as the Colleen Bawn. 

One evening in July Scanlan, Ellen, and 
Michael O'Sulhvan were out in a boat, and they 
offered to ferry Nelly Walsh and three young men 
across the Shannon, from Kilrush to Glin. A 
terrible storm arose, and they all remained the 
night at Carrigafoyle, an island on the coast of 
the county of Kerry. Ellen Hanley wore a long 
grey cloak, a gold ring on her finger, and she car- 
ried a little round trunk filled with fine wearing 
apparel. The next morning the young men of 
Nelly Walsh's party went to Glin, but Nelly re- 
mained with Ellen Hanley. Later in the day 
Nelly was rowed across to Glin, leaving Ellen 



266 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Hanley with John Scanlan and Michael Sul- 
livan, his servant and boatman. They had played 
together as boys, and so great was Michael's 
love and admiration for his young master, that 
he was ready to go even to the gallows for 
him. 

The next morning when Nelly Walsh met Scan- 
lan and O'SuUivan, on being questioned, they told 
her different stories of the absent Colleen Bawn. 
One said she had remained at Kilkee, the other 
that she was in Kilrush, and both told the story 
later that she had gone away with the captain of 
a ship. The grey cloak and the beautiful clothes 
from the little round trunk were given by Michael 
O 'Sullivan to his sister, while he himself wore the 
plain gold wedding-ring on his finger, which Ellen 
Hanley had displayed with such pride to Nelly 
Walsh. 

Certainly the evidence of foul play seemed 
against the two young men, but though suspected 
they were not arrested until two months later, 
when the body of the Colleen Bawn was dis- 
covered on a small and lonely estuary of the 
Shannon, under a mound of stones and slimy 
weeds. There was only a little bodice to identify 
her, and her perfect teeth, sound and milk-white 
as pearls. A rope was tightly knotted about her 
slender neck, showing that she had been first 
strangled; and a loop at the end suggested that a 



KILLARNEY 267 

stone had been attached to it, and after the murder 
her body dropped in the water. 

It was proved that Ellen Hanley had been liv- 
ing with her uncle, a well-to-do ropemaker in 
Limerick, and while there she had contracted a 
secret marriage with Scanlan; afterwards he had 
tired of her, and she had been foully dealt with. 
When the river gave up its dead, Scanlan, sure 
of his safety, was visiting at one of the great 
houses in Ireland. He was arrested, committed to 
the gaol in Limerick, and the trial was begun with 
as little delay as possible. The great O'Connell, 
employed for his defence, did all that he could 
for the distinguished young prisoner, but the wit- 
nesses stood the cross-fire of his brilliant exami- 
nation without a single contradiction. 

The jury made no delay in finding the prisoner 
guilty, and the judge sentenced him to be hanged 
in twenty-four hours. Immediately after the 
sentence one of his family, a good horseman, 
travelled over the country to procure names of 
men of influence to a petition for mercy. A depu- 
tation of distinguished gentlemen presented the 
paper, but the judge said he had just sentenced 
an illiterate man to death for a murder less ter- 
rible, therefore he could not grant a respite to 
Scanlan, an intelligent gentleman, whose crime was 
far greater in enormity. The law must take its 
course. As a last favour Scanlan was allowed to 



268 HERSELF— IRELAND 

drive in the family coach to Gallows' Green, but 
the horses neighing pitifully refused to stir. 
Neither blows nor threats would induce them to 
draw their unfortunate young master to the place 
of execution. He was obliged to walk in the 
sad procession to the gibbet, and to the last pro- 
tested his innocence, saying: " I suffer for a crime 
in which I did not participate." 

Later, Michael O'Sullivan was found, arrested, 
confessed his guilt, and he, too, was executed. 

Even the unique gifts of O'Connell could not 
save these two unfortunate young men. At this 
time he had gained the reputation of being the 
greatest criminal lawyer in Europe. Nature 
seemed to have given him every physical, personal, 
and intellectual advantage. He was tall, with a 
straight, muscular figure, a fine expressive face, 
deep blue eyes, and a voice of sweetness and 
tremendous power. It could roll Hke the thunder 
of a splendid organ, or in tender tones of irresist- 
ible pathos bring tears to the eyes of his hearers; 
and great as were his gifts of oratory, his intellec- 
tual gifts were still greater. He had a wonderful 
sense of humour, a razor-like power of sarcasm, 
and with this unusual combination of quahties he 
was still more unusual in knowing the letter of 
the law. 

Even the most sensational murder cases are for- 
gotten, but the Colleen Bawn has been made im- 





Scenes in the Lake Country 



KILLARNEY 269 

mortal, first by Gerald Griffin's story of The Col- 
legians and later by Dion Boucicault's thrilling 
drama of The Colleen Bawn. Mrs. Boucicault 
told me that her husband was so moved and in- 
spired by The Collegians^ although the play dif- 
fered from the book, that at the end of three weeks 
he had finished the four acts, and on Saturday they 
had begun rehearsals. It was in The Colleen 
Bawn that I first saw this greatly gifted Irish 
actor, and with an ear attuned to sound, I have 
never forgotten his wonderful voice. Like Sarah 
Bernhardt's, it could be described as a voice of 
gold. Every human emotion: scorn, pride, rage, 
fear, despair, love, tenderness — oh, such exquisite 
melting tenderness — were conveyed in its myriad 
tones. And Dion Boucicault was not only an 
actor but a literary man as well. He wrote many 
thrilling plays beside The Colleen Bawn, and the 
libretto and the lyrics of that popular opera The 
Lily of Killarney. So perhaps after all, with a 
book, and a play, and an opera to keep her mem- 
ory green, the beautiful Colleen Bawn did not 
meet her tragic death in vain. 

When we reached the second black rock, cleft 
by the sword of the great Finn McCoul, our 
horses were stopped, and the guide told us to make 
a wish, which was certain to come true. I have 
a thirty years' wish on tap, so it was not necessary 
for me to hnger long by the lake, where, according 



270 HERSELF— IRELAND 

to history, St. Patrick drowned the last serpent, 
but according to legend the serpent still Hves, and 
is imprisoned in a copper chest which is lodged in 
the bottom of the lake, waiting for the last great 
day, when he will emerge for judgment. But until 
then he remains solitary, for no self-respecting 
fish would associate with him or keep him 
company. 

The mountains, awe-inspiring, rose on either 
side to enormous heights above us. We saw an 
eagle soar and wild deer disappear, and the sun 
seemed to be less bright in the deep valley, it was 
so obscured by black and purple shadows. When- 
ever I was particularly enjoying the view, and 
drifting into a sentimental and romantic mood, my 
large red horse started off on a fierce disturbing 
trot, and by the time I reached the lovely lake I 
felt rather hke a bruised jelly. We had a little 
anxious excitement when Kitty's mare galloped 
and her rider cast a neat brown shoe. There was 
some difficulty in finding it, but eventually the 
guide discovered a high suede heel under a spread- 
ing fern, and we left the splendid gloom of the 
Gap and stepped into the broad boat awaiting us 
on the Upper Lake. The younger of the boatmen 
was rather silent, but the middle-aged captain of 
the craft, who was a strong swift oarsman, was 
full of information and stories. 

I was interested to see the islands of the Upper 



KILLARNEY 271 

Lake, particularly Arbutus Island, as I expected 
to find the beautiful pink American arbutus; but 
it is quite a different plant, much larger and 
finer than ours, though the flowers are far less 
fragrant. 

It is impossible to describe the beauty of the 
lakes on that lovely day, the strong lights and 
shadows from the surrounding hills, the intense 
blue of the sky and water, the glossy green of 
the varied verdure, the sweetness of the sound of 
running water from the httle streams that whisper 
to the lakes. But how strange the loneliness and 
the want of summer houses seem to an American. 
Killarney is more beautiful than our American 
lakes, and yet they are fringed with gay hos- 
pitable villas and cottages, while these sweet 
waters of Ireland are left undisturbed to silence 
and to loneliness. Lovely wild flowers bloom to 
the very water's edge — Water Germander, Heal- 
all and Bugle, Bluebottle and Adder's Tongue, 
and ferns were crowding forward to absorb the 
moisture, while deeper in the woods we got a 
glimpse of Foxglove, blackberry vines, and Sweet 
Woodruff, and near us a ruin was completely 
surrounded by Elecampane. There is everything 
to make Killarney beautiful — water, hills, woods, 
sky, for even when it rains the sky is silvery and 
clear. Brilhant patches of colour, fields of golden 
red, and headlands and rocks covered in the beau- 



272 HERSELF— IRELAND 

tiful magenta heather, that is never seen except 
in Ireland. 

As we glided over the lake, Kitty called out 
excitedly, " I saw a snow-white silver trout." 

The boatman said, " Did she have a rosy mark 
on her side ? " 

And Kitty, who was trailing her hand in the 
water said, " I don't know, it glided quickly under 
my hand, and looked like a fish carved from 
mother-of-pearl." 

"Ah, 'twas her right enough," said the boat- 
man; "'twas the Princess; she would be out late 
on a day like this, she loves the sunshine." 

" The Princess," said Kitty, " is it a fairy fish? " 

The boatman was slow to answer. " You Amer- 
icans have no good people in your country, and 
don't believe in thim. I won't bother you with 
this tale." 

"Oh, yes we have," I said; "and our fairies 
have wept real tears." 

" That cannot be, lady," said the boatman; 
" the good people are too gay to weep. Thim 
mischievous crathurs have no tears in their little 
hearts." 

" We have proof of the Virginia fairies weeping 
tears," I said. " It was ages ago when a breath- 
less Puck came to the Happy Valley, and found 
all the fairies dancing at a great festival to the full 
moon of midsummer. His dress was made from a 



KILLARNEY 273 

black Iris, his wings were grey and drooping, and 
he looked sorrowful and broken-hearted. The 
pretty little rainbow creatures crowded round him 
and called out, ' Join the dance ! Join the dance ! ' 
And he said, ' No, my heavy grief makes my feet 
like drops of lead. I have seen a horrible thing, 
a thing that has pierced my heart. The gentle 
Christ has been crucified. I was there, but could 
not help Him.* And he described to the good 
people that dreadful day in Jerusalem, and they 
all wept, and wept, and wept. And each fairy 
tear became a little rude stone cross, and if you 
go to that valley — it is no longer called the Happy 
Valley, but the Valley of Tears — you can pick up 
little fairy crosses to this day." 

The boatman said, "God save us all, lady; I do 
belave on that awful day the fairies did let fall 
their tears, sure an' how could they help it; an' 
I would like to see wun of thim crosses." 

I wore one on a bracelet, and showed it to him. 

" Then," he said, " as you have the good people 
in your country, I will tell you about the silver 
throut. 

" In the ould ancient times, a King had a beau- 
tiful daughter, who was to marry a Prince as 
beautiful as herself. But a dark Prince loved the 
lady, an' wun day he up wid his sword an' 
killed the fair Prince that was beloved by the 
Princess, an' threw his body into the lake. An' 



274 HERSELF— IRELAND 

whin the Princess heard about the murder she 
refused to ate, an' she couldn't slape, an' was al- 
ways wander in' be the edge of the lake. They 
tried and tried to find the Prince and dragged the 
lake and wanted to give his poor body Christian 
burial, but he was niver more to be found. An' 
the Princess pined and pined, an' got white an' 
still more white, an' wun day she didn't die, she 
just disappeared. An' the very same day, in the 
avenin', a boatman saw a white throut swimmin' 
up the lake at night, an' down the lake the next 
mornin'. An' that throut had blue eyes like the 
grievin' colleen, an' he says, * Sure, 'tis the Princess 
been turned into a fish by a kind fairy to find her 
thrue luv.' An' from that day to this, hundreds 
of years, that silver throut swims up the lake in 
the avenin', an' down the lake in the mornin' — 
always, but wunce. 

" Wun afthernoon an Enghsh soldier, who 
didn't belave in the Good People or silver throuts, 
whin she was dramin' caught her an' took her 
home, and put her in a pan with grase an' tried 
to fry her. But, glory be to God, she wouldn't 
fry. He turned her on this side and on that side, 
an' there she was as fresh as whin she came out 
of the wather. Suddonly he lost his timper, an' 
says, ' 'Ave you force me to it I'll ate ye alive, but 
ate ye I will.' Wid this he stuck his strong Eng- 
lish fork into the unfortunate throut. Wid that 



KILLARNEY 275 

she gives a scrame like a Banshee, an' leps out 
av the fryin'-pan, hghts on her httle feet a lovely- 
Princess in a long silver robe, her golden hair 
stramin' all over it, an' blood eomin' out av her 
side. She looked at the soldier wid her big blue 
eyes an' says, ' You cruel murtherer, see what you 
have done. You tuk me out av me nice cool clane 
wather, where I was lukin' for me thrue love, who 
wun day will surely find me, an' you thried to fry 
me in hot soft grase. You were too stupid to see 
I wouldn't fry, an' while I am talkin' to you an' 
puttin' a thousand curses on to you, notwith- 
standin' these hundreds of years I have been thry- 
in' to find me own thrue love; he may be swim- 
min' afther me this blessed minute, an' I will lose 
him yet. If I do, I'll grow to the size of a whale, 
an' I'll come out av the wather an' swallow ye 
whole.' 

" The English soldier remimbered Jonah and 
his whale, an' he trimbled like an aspen lafe, an' 
whin the Princess subsided into a bleedin' fish agin, 
he quickly placed the throut on a clean china plate, 
dashed down to the lake an' put her back agin 
an' saw her swim away. An' iver since thin she 
has a rosy blush on her side, where that murtherous 
English fork wint into her." 

" Oh, I wish I had caught that fish," said Kitty; 
" perhaps she would have become a beautiful 
Princess for me. Maybe now she would be sitting 



276 HERSELF— IRELAND 

in this boat in her shining silver dress, with her 
golden hair flowing about her like a golden 
mantle." 

" I thought," I said to the boatman, " that was 
a story of Cong? " 

" I don't know if they claim it in another part 
of Ireland," said the boatman, frowning, " but 
I have been on this lake over forty years, an' 
always I have seen that silver throut swimmin' 
up in the mornin' an' down in the avenin', an' 
always I hear the same tale about her." 

" I am sure," I said, " it is the very same silver 
fish that inspired Yeats to those charming verses: 

" I went out to the hazel wood, 
Because a fire was in my head. 
And cut and peeled a hazel wand. 
And hooked a berry to a thread; 
And when white moths were on the wing, 
And moth-like stars were flickering out, 
I dropped the berry in a stream 
And caught a little silver trout. 

" When I had laid it on the floor 
I went to blow the fire a-flame. 
But something rustled on the floor. 
And something called me by my name: 
It had become a glimmering girl 
With apple blossom in her hair. 
Who called me by my name and ran 
And faded through the brightening air. 



KILLARNEY 277 

" Though I am old with wandering 
Through hollow lands and hilly lands, 
I will find out where she has gone, 
And kiss her lips and take her hands. 
And walk among long dappled grass. 
And pluck till time and times are done 
The silver apples of the moon. 
The golden apples of the sun. 

" I heard Yeats read that poem in America, and 
I could not resist saying to him afterwards, ' I 
would have done it better myself.' Perhaps he 
does not appreciate its beauties as I do. George 
Moore says he is no judge of his own books, as 
he has never read them, and that when he has 
leisure he intends to take a course of George 
Moore." 

It had been a heavenly day, and the tempta- 
tion to remain on the lake until the last possible 
moment was so great, that we were late for din- 
ner. But not so late as a humble bride and groom, 
who were spending their honeymoon at the Killar- 
ney Hotel, and were evidently quite new to the 
usages of polite hotels. For the waiter said that 
when he asked them whether they would have 
diner table dfhote or a la carte as it was so late, 
the bridegroom looked for help towards the bride, 
and when she gave him none he said generously, 
" We will take a httle of both — and plenty of 
gravy." That young man could not have given 
a better augury for the life's happiness of his 



278 HERSELF— IRELAND 

wife, than wanting not only gravy, but plenty 
of it. 

I find that simple, artless, straightforward, 
kindhearted men and women, with hearty appe- 
tites and good digestions, like plenty of gravy. 
It is an indication of mental and physical well- 
being. But the more complicated part of human- 
ity, those who are emotional and capricious of 
health, do not like gravy. It so soon gets cold, and 
resolves itself into a grey solidity. Gravy seems to 
me a defiance to digestion unless you have an un- 
hesitating appetite, and can eat without dalliance. 
I am too complex in temperament, indifferent of 
digestion, and dally too long over my food for 
gravy. I remember at quite an early age, when 
my parents implored me to eat meat, and I much 
preferred rice, that I would say, " A little piece 
of roast beef, but" (unhke the bridegroom of 
Killarney) "no gravy." And since that '^'^ table 
d'hote, a la carte, and plenty of gravy," I can 
invariably tell by looking at people whether they 
hke gravy. 

The yoimg, straightforward, hearty, burly, 
manly; the joyous, the frank, the healthy, the 
strenuous, the up-early big breakfast people, all 
dehght in gravy, " and plenty of it." But the 
sad, the sorrowful, the uncertain, the analytic, 
the disillusioned, the doubting and the dehcate, all 
eschew gravy. 



CHAPTER XIV 

LIMERICK 

A STORY of Limerick is of two English ladies who 
were talking in loud tones in the street. One of 
them said to the other, " I've travelled all over 
Europe, in many countries, and" — looking about 
her — " I've never seen such dirty people as the 
Irish." 

An old fisherwoman following behind with her 
basket overtook them and said with her eyes flash- 
ing, " Maybe 'tis thrue yez have thravelled the 
wurrld over, but whin yez thravel down to hell 
ye'll find no dirty Irish there." 

Kitty and I stopped at a more than question- 
ably clean hotel in Limerick, but the principles 
advocated by the proprietor were not only clean, 
but almost obsolete in chaste purity. 

Lamenting the more recent history of Ireland, 
he said, " I wint to school with Charley Parnell," — 
it was the first time I had ever heard that stern 
personahty spoken of as " Charley," — " and his 
thruble was as if me own brother had made a 
mistake. Ah, 'twas the greatest pity in the 
wurrld, for Charley was, from the time he was a 
bhoy, wun of thim who could make you do what- 

279 



280 HERSELF— IRELAND 

iver he wanted. He carried power in his eye. 
And to think that in the end he was entirely put 
under by a woman. I stood by him, but 'twas for 
the sake of Ireland, I don't hould with thim 
things " — he waved his arm comprehensively 
around the shabby, disordered, dusty room, as if it 
was sacrosant — " and — I don't have anny of thim 
things goin' on here. It's thrue 'tis a hotel, but 
'tis also thrue that I kape it unpolluted. And 
while I live 'twill be clane, 'twill be dacint. 

"A little time ago two min and wun woman 
came to the hotel — I niver like thim Threes. Two 
women and wun man, or two min and wun woman 
— and whin I see thim, I take notice. Well, this 
last Three was unasyly gay, an' she with a skirt 
unchristian short, an' a bodice unchristian low, an' 
they was laughin' and talkin' an' pretindin' to be so 
friendly together, an' there was plenty of drink to 
the fore, with champagne corks poppin'. But 
the laughin' was too bould, 'twasn't natural, an' 
both the min looked hard whin they looked at each 
other, an' the woman looked soft at wun an' sly 
at the other, an' 'twas him that was her husband. 

" An' thin come the avenin' when I tuk part. 
' Twas after the make-believe merriment the three 
began to yawn, an' twasn't long before the two 
min wint upstairs to their bedrooms. An' thin 
the lady wint to hers, an' I follyed her, an' found 
her standin' with her hand on the knob of a door. 



LIMERICK 281 

An' God save us all it wasn't her own door knob, 
nor yit her husband's, so I stepped close to her, an' 
I brought down the flat of my hand, an' I slapped 
her. I slapped that painted hussy as she had not 
been slapped since she was a bad little gur-rle. 
Thin the doors opened, an' the two min an' me an' 
the woman all stood lukin' at each other. An' 
thim two min didn't dare ax me why. I was so 
burstin' to tell thim I breathed like a man snorin', 
an' that was the only sound. Whin I found the 
talkin' was to be left to me, I said, ' I kape a 
dacint roof over my head, an' over the heads of 
thim that stays under it, an' if they are not dacint 
so much the worse for thim.' I luked at the 
woman, one cheek was blazin' red, an' the other 
snow white. Thin I tuk her by the arm an' handed 
her to her husband, who was the poorest spirited 
of the lot, an' I pointed to her reproved cheek, an' 
I said to the likes of him, ' If you had been half a 
man you'd have done it yourself, but I done it 
for you.' An' thin I told the wun who was not her 
husband, I could part with his company that min- 
ute, an' maybe I done a good job for I shnmed 
that lot of Threes annyway. They was high up 
in the wur-rld, but high or low thim things don't 
go on in this hotel." 

An arrival interrupted this thrilling conversa- 
tion, and I said to Kitty, " That militant defender 
of virtue doesn't know it, but his methods are 



282 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Biblical. The woman was not stoned. She was 
slapped." 

Kitty laughed. " Poor woman, she was not only 
slapped but she lost her admirer; he could never 
forget that sordid episode, it killed all romance — 
you may be sure of that." 

We were much struck with the beauty of the 
women of Limerick. The fashionably dressed, and 
the poor, with shawls over their heads and bare 
feet, were equally good-looking. In the hot sum- 
mer weather these thick blankety shawls which 
envelope them must be extremely uncomfortable. 
I wonder that some Manchester manufacturer does 
not make large cheap cotton shawls for the Irish 
market; they would be certain to have a quick 
sale. Both the women and men have a curiously 
southern appearance. They are tall and grace- 
ful, and the men particularly have a good length 
of limb, flat backs, and supple waists, like my 
own Texas cowboys. Their speech is soft, with a 
little drawl, and a comforting kindly intonation. 
The tallest policemen in Ireland are said to come 
from the South and West, and many of them are 
Limerick boys. 

We passed an old man in a donkey car driven by 
a young peasant girl, who was as vividly coloured 
as a humming-bird. Her skin was starthngly red 
and white, her eyes dark blue with black lashes. 
She was smihng, and her teeth were strong and 



LIMERICK 283 

white — an unusual beauty in Ireland — her shawl 
had fallen off her shoulders, and her little head 
was covered in thick plaits of glossy black hair. 
The Limerick women have a good upright car- 
riage, as if they carried buckets of water on 
their heads like the women of the Canary Islands. 

There is no town in Ireland that has a more 
interesting history than that of Limerick, con- 
nected as it is with Sarsfield, Cornwall, and the 
celebrated Treaty, which after Sarsfield with his 
12,000 good men and true had left the country, 
was broken by England — alas! if it had been the 
only broken treaty — the situation is beautiful, be- 
ing surrounded on all sides with splendid moun- 
tains which shelter it from cold winds, and the 
Golden Vale — said to be one of the most fertile 
districts in Ireland — dips down between the lovely 
hills, and provides fine grazing ground for 
cattle. 

The broad Shannon on its way to the sea be- 
comes, near the town, a series of lakes, gloriously 
reflecting clouds and sky. There has evidently 
been no plan in building the city, it has developed 
from a village; and there are pleasant curves and 
unexpected winding streets, and old gabled houses, 
suggestive of those in Flemish Belgium. 

The Cathedral of St. Mary's was built in the 
twelfth century; it still stands, and the interior 
contains memorials of interest. In the chancel 



284 HERSELF— IRELAND 

is a monument to Donagh O'Brien, Earl of 
Thomond. It was restored by the Earl of Lim- 
erick, and is now rich in the coloured marbles of 
Ireland. The bells, said to rival those of Shan- 
don in sweetness of tone, were made by an Italian 
for a convent in the Appenines, and he loved them 
so he lived within sound of their chimes. Money 
difficulties arose, and to meet them the Mother 
Abbess sold the bells. 

The maker also had suffered in fortune, and, 
broken-hearted, he became a wanderer over the 
world. The law of coincidence brought him to 
Ireland, and as he sailed up the broad Shannon in 
the twilight of a golden day, the air was filled 
with music, and he heard once again his beloved 
bells. Ireland faded away; he was in Italy 
again, at the entrance of the long white convent. 
The scent of ohve trees was in the air. The joy of 
his youth returned. The bells rang out the An- 
gelus with a divine sweetness, and on their delicate 
chime his soul floated aloft. When they landed he 
was found dead. 

King John's Castle is another landmark, having 
been built in 1210. It is a wonderfully picturesque 
Norman fortress, flanked by two drum towers. 
The walls are ten feet thick, cannonades having 
made superficial indentations, and through all the 
centuries it has been used as a garrison. Thomond 
Bridge springs from its gate, and connects the 




< 
O 

W 

O 



LIMERICK 285 

English town with County Clare. In 1839 it was 
rebuilt with splendid broad spans, which are now 
daily traversed. At the west end of the bridge the 
famous Treaty Stone of 1691 was set upon its 
present pedestal in 1865, the year that ended our 
great Civil War in America — and it bears the 
inscription applied to Carthage: 

" Urbs antiqua fuit studiiesque asperrima belli." 

The lovely little Castle of the Lax Weir, all 
overgrown with golden lichen and pale moss, is in 
the centre of the trap for salmon and eels, and a 
very ancient regulation connected with it still 
exists. At night a boat dimly lighted is moored 
below the Castle Weir, and from it watchmen call 
every hour of the night. In the eighteenth cen- 
tury there were famous gardens in Limerick, and 
even yet the flowers bloom with luxuriance, and 
the raspberries of a monster size have a flavour 
like that of a juicy flower. 

Limerick lace is known all over the world, and 
of late there has been a revival of the tambour 
and run lace. Old Limerick lace was white until 
time turned it yellow, but now that a cream net 
and thread are used in the making, it is far more 
becoming. If a few ladies of influence would get 
Parisian dressmakers to recognise its flattering 
quahties this lace would have a fasl^Jonable and 



286 HERSELF— IRELAND 

prosperous future. There is no more charming 
veil for a bride than a full, clinging, soft diaphan- 
ous square of Limerick lace. 

Besides lace-making there are other industries. 
Limerick hams are celebrated all over the world. 
Limerick butter, made from the cows that feed 
in the Golden Vale, is unequalled; and Limerick 
bacon is celebrated for the manner in which it fries 
with a crisp dryness. That is the test of all others 
of good bacon. The longer the war lasts, the 
wetter the bacon seems to be. A good deal of 
inferior bacon masquerades under the name of 
Limerick, but the genuine article is really the 
best in the world. 

With its splendid situation on the Shannon 
Limerick at one time commanded a prosperous 
trade; it is close to the broad Atlantic, and some 
future day it should become a port to America. 
That is part of my vision and dream for Ireland. 

The old shops with their prints, glass, china, bits 
of jeweby, silver snuff-boxes, and furniture are 
seductive. A persuasive salesman very nearly in- 
duced Kitty to buy a hospitable silver teapot, 
suitable in size for a small garden party. It 
seemed to me this large object, stored away in 
the limited kit of a V.A.D., was an unnecessary 
possession, so I intervened. The quaint little man 
then exhibited various articles for my delectation, 
a piping Pan of bronze, Indian silver, Nankin 



LIMERICK 287 

ware, and as a last hope he dangled the locket 
of a queen to dazzle me. 

" No," I said, " none of these things tempt me." 

" You never can tell," he said, " what will take 
the fancy of people who like old stuff." 

" Quite true; my friend Hicks, of Dublin, goes 
so far as to say that people who buy curios are not 
responsible for their actions." What an eerie hit- 
the-nail-on-the-head laugh that man gave; he had 
so often to his own advantage proved Hicks' 
theory. 

In another musty, dusty shop we found an 
amazingly interesting human document. It was 
an old scrapbook of the O 'Grady family, collected 
and edited by an unusually talented amateur 
artist. Miss Louisa O'Grady. Her water-colours, 
— I bought one — a fair-haired little girl holding 
a grey-eyed little kitten — painted with a touch as 
light as a butterfly, were finished with exquisite 
care, and somehow she had managed to convey 
in her work her own personality, that of a gentle- 
woman of taste and refinement. I imagine her 
with a sweet oval face framed in pale-brown silky 
hair, a slim figure, and slender hands; a dress of 
lavender muslin finished at neck and wrists with 
frills of English thread lace, a lavender ribbon 
around her waist fastened by a flat bow, and long 
flowing ends. 

In this honoured book of the O'Gradys there 



288 HERSELF— IRELAND 

were letters from Kings and Queens, Statesmen 
and Ambassadors, poets and opera singers, a neat 
missive and a very beautiful youthful photograph 
of Patti. A lovely signed photograph — showing 
her splendid coronet of braids, more beautiful than 
any jewelled coronet she ever wore — of the un- 
fortunate Elizabeth of Austria, who loved Ireland, 
Irish people, and above all Irish horses. Letters 
and a photograph of Garibaldi. Little sketches of 
famous artists. Lovely portraits of her family and 
friends by Louisa O 'Grady, caricatures sent her 
by the artists of Punch. Letters from great 
actors. A little verse by Alfred Tennyson, and a 
long and well-written letter from Arthur Mac- 
Murrough Kavanagh — one of the heroes of my, 
youth who remains a hero still. 

Admiring as I do bodily perfection, having seen 
the power of beauty, and the supreme advantage 
that a handsome appearance gives a man or a 
woman, — even the genius of the greatest artist is 
enhanced by a lovely exterior, — there is but one 
thing I admire more. The triumph of mind over 
matter. Spirit and intelligence rising superior to 
its cramped and imperfect abode. There must be 
such an array of fine qualities to do this. A great 
sweetness of nature to be reconciled to deformity; 
unintermittent courage to go forward and meet 
life as those well equipped for the fray; humility 
that can say, *' Why not I as well as another? " 



LIMERICK 289 

and a splendid pride to conquer in spite of being 
different from other men. 

Arthur MacMurrough Kavanagh possessed all 
these qualities, and more. It is true that he had 
blue blood in his veins, and could trace his parent- 
age to the Kings of Leinster, but even the fighting 
heritage of his ancestors must have quailed at a 
misfortune such as his, for he was born with only 
the rudiments of arms and legs. And yet, with 
never-flagging courage and ingenious perseverance 
he did all, and much more than many normal men. 
His body was vigorous, and by athletic exercises 
he developed his stumps of arms, until they be- 
came as strong as steel, and lightning quick in 
movement. Strapped in a basket-chair, with the 
reins twined about his wrists, the whip held close 
to his side, he rode to hounds and took fences 
and walls with the boldest riders. On one occa- 
sion his chair seat slipped and he was dragged 
head downwards along the ground, but this dan- 
gerous accident did not prevent his riding again. 

He was an expert fisherman, supplying the 
play of the wrist by dexterous and well-timed 
jerks with his stumps of arms. He was a good 
shot both in cover and in the open, resting the gun 
upon his left arm stump and jerking the trigger 
with his right. He was an experienced yachtsman, 
and wrote an account of a cruise off the coast of 
Albania; and he became a fair amateur draughts- 



290 HERSELF— IRELAND 

man and water-colour painter, while his writing — 
it cannot be called handwriting, as he had no 
hands — was round, legible, and full of character. 

He was educated by private tutors in Ireland, 
France, and Rome, and in his youth travelled to 
Egypt, to Asia Minor, to Sinai, Jerusalem, and 
Beyrout. Returning to Ireland in 1848 while 
Smith O'Brien's rebellion was in progress, he 
joined the Volunteer Scouts, and was on active 
service, riding alone oftentimes all night. His 
physical disadvantages for him had ceased to exist. 
He not only lived as other men, but as an active 
and vigorous man. He could wheel himself about 
the house in a chair, but for walking he used the 
legs of his servant, who carried him on his back. 

At the end of the rebellion he started with his 
eldest brother to India, by way of Russia, Persia, 
and Mosul. Visiting Nineveh on to Bagdad, and 
riding through a perilous pass to Shirez he saw the 
mule before him tumble over a precipice, but his 
wonderful nerve did not fail him, and by a quick 
jerk he reined his animal to hug the mountain 
pass and thus saved his life. 

In India he hunted big game and killed a tiger, 
carried despatches in the Arungbad district, and 
held a post in Poonah. The death of his eldest 
brother made it necessary for him to return to 
Ireland. There is an ancient unwritten law that 
no head of a clan must be imperfect in body, but 



LIMERICK 291 

the dominant courage and indomitable manliness 
of Kavanagh made him acceptable to the Ka- 
vanaghs, and he proved a more than creditable 
chief to the old traditions He was not without 
the love of women. His mother had been his 
constant companion and friend, and his cousin, 
Frances Mary, a beautiful girl who had other 
suitors refused them to marry him. They had sons 
and daughters, and he settled down to the hfe of 
a landlord with a high sense of responsibility to 
his tenants and to his country. He rebuilt the 
villages of B orris and Ballyragget on plans drawn 
out by himself, which were of such excellence they 
won the Royal Dublin Society's Medal. As a Jus- 
tice of the Peace he administered justice in the 
courtyard of Borris House, sitting in his chair, 
and there he mended quarrels, made up differences 
between neighbours and smoothed away obstacles 
to wavering marriages. After his election to Par- 
liament, when the House was in session he was 
always in his seat, and though he spoke rarely it 
was to the point, and he was a valued and ener- 
getic member of the Conservative Party. 

His active spirit urging him to unceasing work 
was too much for his incomplete physique, and he 
did not live beyond middle-age. But what matter? 
He lived long enough to show what a completely 
intrepid spirit can accomplish. Without arms or 
legs, or feet or hands, he was sportsman, fisher- 



292 HERSELF— IRELAND 

man, draughtsman, traveller, writer, and a broad- 
spirited man of public affairs. 

His sanity must have been perfect, his intelli- 
gence normal, and his self -consciousness small to 
enable him to live — cruelly hampered by circum- 
stance — as though he were equal to other men. 
He was never spectacular or dramatic, but his 
life, sincere and simple, called forth the highest 
moral and physical courage possible to man. And 
though many Irish heroes have won laurels as 
statesmen, patriots, and soldiers, none have de- 
served a crown more than this valiant warrior 
who so gallantly carried his cross of defeat under 
the banner of Victory. 



CHAPTER XV 

A PLEASANT TOUR 

We left Limerick on a pleasant warm day, 
travelled third-class to Parknasilla, and happened 
on an entertaining company. An amiable old 
priest, two farmers, and later a third entered the 
carriage. Greeted with enthusiasm, he was evi- 
dently a well-known wit. 

*' And have you paid your rint yet? " asked one 
of his friends. 

" Begob an' I have not, an' 'tis me Christian 
duty to me neighbour an' me landlord not to do it. 
Shure an' if I paid him his rint wouldn't he be 
off to London to spind it, and then he moight run 
away with a London beauty, an' get himself into 
the divorce court. Do you think I am goin' to 
be exposin' a man with siven childer an' a wife to 
such timptation? " 

The priest, who took snuff, said, " Don't you 
think you are taking too much time by the fore- 
lock, Jerry? " 

" Ah, Father, 'tis foresight distinguishes the 
white man from the savage, an' ' 'tis foresight is 
keepin' me landlord from ruin," 

293 



294. HERSELF— IRELAND 

Our tender-hearted tenant and his friends, to 
our regret, left us at the next station. The motor 
drive from the village of Parknasilla to the sea- 
shore, through beautiful country, was delightful, 
rain had laid the dust, the trees were dripping 
diamond drops, and the shadows were lengthen- 
ing, but the sun shone brilliantly. We passed a 
cottage which seemed to have stepped out of a 
highly coloured picture postcard. It was freshly 
whitewashed, with a thatched roof of golden straw, 
two tall fuchsias, red and purple, grew on either 
side of the green door, and down the flagged 
path were rows of poppies and white lilies. 
Daisies besprinkled the vivid green grass in the 
little garden, and the low white wall was over- 
grown with scarlet runners and passion flowers. 
With the sunshine intensifying the brilliant colour 
scheme of scarlet, white and green, it was amaz- 
ingly pretty. 

Parknasilla itself is a perfect beauty spot. The 
hotel, originally the house of a bishop, has been 
enlarged and converted into a most comfortable 
abode. It is situated on a low cHff softly rolling 
down to an inlet from the sea. The various islands 
dotted about, and the gently lapping waves of blue 
water give the impression of a lake. In the dis- 
tance is a long line of opalescent mountains, and 
there are many acres of lovely woods, winding 
walks, and little rustic bridges thrown across unex- 



A PLEASANT TOUR 295 

pected channels of sea water. The vegetation is 
boldly luxurious; with proper care even tropical 
shrubs and trees would grow in this rich and fertile 
country. The green of the trees, the blue of 
the sky, the pink and mauve of the moun- 
tains, and the flowers opulent in size and vivid 
in colour fill the eye continually with surprising 
beauty. 

While we were there an officer from the Front 
arrived suffering from shattered nerves, the result 
of shell-shock. As a boy he had visited the Bishop, 
fished from the islands, and sailed a boat as far 
as Valentia, and his first consciousness after being 
blown up was an intense longing for the stillness 
and greenness of the scenes of his boyhood. When 
he got to London he said to his wife, " If I am 
ever to get well it will only be in that soft, kind, 
healing air." Expecting to be in Ireland for some 
months, they had looked at two or three houses 
which were to be let on the way. A picturesque 
place had the bathroom at the top of the house. 
Captain Magilhcuddy noticed a tap for cold water, 
but no outlet for it, and he asked the butler left in 
charge, " After letting in the water and taking a 
bath, how is it emptied? " 

" Sure the master used to toss it out of 
the window, he said the water was good for 
the flowers, and the exercise was good for 
him." 



296 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Mrs. Magillicuddy thought a man must be in 
the pink of condition to daily empty a bath-tub, so 
they decided not to take the house. 

At the end of a pleasant lazy walk at Parkna- 
silla we thought to try a more vigorous climate 
and moved on to Mallaranny. It was not so 
beautiful as Parknasilla, although any place where 
there are mountains and sea, and a wide open 
view, and thick hedges of fuchsia, and fields of 
magenta heather must be beautiful. The air is 
invigorating, and there were pleasant walks, and a 
recruiting office where they had not recruited any- 
thing except a snow-white parrot with a pale 
yellow lining to his tail, a crescent of blue feathers 
around his eyes, and a pink top-knot. He was 
called James, and said with cutting distinctness, 
" Give James bread and but-ter." Two puppies, 
a kitten, and a bachelor guinea-pig finished the 
innocent recruits. 

The beautiful island of Achill is not many miles 
away, and we spent a glorious day there. Many 
jarveys beset us at the station, there were several 
younger drivers and faster horses that we might 
have taken for our long drive, but we could not 
resist the blue eyes of an old man, who assured 
us that his horse was good for any number of 
miles. So we mounted the car and started for the 
grand tour. The strong sunshine and the crystal- 
line air revealed all the wild beauty of Achill. The 



A PLEASANT TOUR 297 

undulating shore, the white cliffs, the blue Atlantic 
with its — that day — kind waves and white caps 
rolling over the yellow sands. The fisherwomen 
in blue bodices and scarlet homespun skirts — in 
future, unfortunately they will be white, as the red 
dye came from Germany — gathering Carrigean 
moss, which makes the best gelatine, and latterly 
the soft, clean, jelly-like substance impregnated 
with salt has been found a valuable antiseptic for 
wounds. 

"Isn't it wonderful?" said Kitty. "I would 
like every artist I know to come to Achill. Did 
you ever see so much sea, and mountain, and sky 
before? It looks as if all the doors of the world 
were open." 

" To-day," I said, " it is heavenly, but the sea 
can be terrible here. It was off the coast of Achill 
that the Children of Lir, when they were swans, 
suffered their worst hardships, and Katherine 
Tynan wrote her beautiful maternal poem of that 
period of their lives: 

" But alas ! for my swans, with the human nature, 

Sick with human longings, starved with human ties. 
With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature, 

And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes. 
Never shall my swans build nests in some green river, 

Never fly to southward in the autumn grey, 
Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever, 

Robbed alike of birds' joys and of man's are they. 



298 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling. 

Over sands and sedges shines the evening star, 
And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing, 

Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are — 
Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder, 

Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest. 
But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder 

Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest." 

"Look!" said Kitty, "there are swans, per- 
haps you have called back the Children of 
Lir." 

" No," said the old man, " those are big gulls 
floating on the sea. It is quiet now, but in the 
winter when a strong wind blows over the Atlantic, 
the waves rise so high they look like blue moun- 
tains capped with snow." 

"Did you ever see such colour?" asked Kitty. 
" Look at those black cliffs standing with their 
feet in blue water, the green grass on the 
level above them, the hollows full of purple 
shadows, tke brown road like a ribbon winding 
along, and that donkey-cart of velvet turf driven 
by a woman in a scarlet skirt. What a picture! " 

We had been sitting by the sea eating our lunch, 
and when we mounted the car again the old jarvey 
turned his head and asked if I was an American 
lady. 

"Yes," I said; "I am from the South." 

" Then you will like to know there's not a cot- 




In Hotki (iARDEN, Parknasilla 



A PLEASANT TOUR 299 

tage in Achill Island but gets silver from your 
country. Some of thim more, some of thim less, 
but all of thim gets it, an' if they didn't wirristhrue 
they would starve in the winter. There's not often 
an empty letther from across the sea, not often, an' 
how they do be looked for. This horse was bought 
with American money. Annie O'Brien sint it to 
me." 

" And who is Annie O'Brien? " 

" She's my daughter. All my childer is in 
America, ivery wun, only me an' herself 's left in 
Achill now." 

" And the horse," I said; " she's homefolks." 

" Ach sure an' she is that, an' the wise wun she 
is. There isn't a craythur in Achill that she don't 
be on spakin' terms wid. An' well — as she's a 
lady I won't tell her age. Annyhow, she's as 
active and sure on her feet as a goat." 

" Where is Annie O'Brien? " I asked. 

"She is in wun of thim great hotels in the 
town of Cleveland. She ain't just a chambermaid 
you know, she's away beyant that. She's some 
kind of a manager an' she makes good money. It 
was she sint for the next wun, an' so wun by wun 
they left us. But for the war two of thim did 
be comin' back this summer. Achill looks bare an' 
lonely to you maybe, but people born to it drame 
of it; whin they go away, a sickness for it comes 
over thim, an' they do be comin' back. You see 



300 HERSELF— IRELAND 

that house we are passin', that's a Yankee 
house." 

"A real Yankee?" I asked. 

"Well, half and half," the jarvey said. "He 
played about here till he was ten. The best swim- 
mer among the lads, an' beginnin' to be a hurler, 
too, young as he was. Thin his father tuk his 
family an' wint to America. The boy had a likin' 
for machinery, an' he invinted an' improved some 
cog to a wheel, an' as soon as he made enough he 
did come back to Achill an' brought a Yankee wife 
an' a Yankee bath-tub wid him." 

" And did he build his house with two stories 
and plant those nice hollyhocks? " 

" He did that, an' it's him that's got the hands 
on him, for he can do about annything, an' his 
wife, too. They got all the furniture up from 
Dubhn. Oh, it's a grand Yankee house, an' thim 
two does be very kind to the poor." 

" Don't they ever want to go back to America? " 

" Divil a bit, lady, for herself lives for himself, 
an' he lives for the swimmin', an' hurlin', an' 
fishin'. The surf must be mountains high for him 
not to ride it." 

A little further on we passed a freshly white- 
washed cottage with sunflowers, gillyflowers, and 
white pinks growing in the patch of ground in 
front of the door. A woman with a broad face and 
bright dark eyes, dressed in a blue bodice and the 



A PLEASANT TOUR 301 

red skirt of the island, was weeding the garden. 
She looked up with a pleasant smile, and the old 
man stopped for a friendly chat with her in 
Irish. 

" That wun," he said, when we finally trotted 
down the road, " has been to America, but it was 
just to see the land an' no more, then they sint 
her back, the pore craythur." 

"Oh, but what a pity," I said; "she looks a 
strong, healthy woman." 

" She do be all of that," the old driver said, 
" there's many a young wun couldn't do the like 
of her work. But it wuzn't her, 'twas Bridgit, her 
daughter, that sint thim back. Noreen Flanagan's 
son John wint to New York, him that lost his 
wife. He was restless an' couldn't settle to his 
work afther she wint, an' he left the two childer 
wid Noreen and Bridgit, an' if he done well they 
wuz all to follow him. He done better than he 
thought, an' he sint money for thim to come 
to him, an' money for the warm things they would 
want on the say. The baby had a red coat, an' 
the boy ivery thing of good Irish frieze, includin' 
a cap. An' Noreen an' Bridgit had grand cloaks, 
an' hats wid feathers in thim, an' they crossed to 
Liverpool an' sailed from there, an' John met 
thim, an' Bridgit niver said a wurd. The examin- 
ers axed if she was dumb or wantin', an' John 
said no, she chirped like a bird at Achill; but divil 



302 HERSELF— IRELAND 

a chirp or a cheep would she give in New York. 
They spoke to her in Enghsh, an' they spoke to 
her in Irish, an' they spoke to her in American, 
but nayther a wurd would she say in anny lan- 
guage. The craythur was struck dumb. An' the 
examiner said she must talk if she was goin' to be 
an American, but niver a wurd would she say, so 
Noreen brought her back to Achill." 

" And can she talk now? " 

" The same as iver — just the same as iver," the 
man said. " Maybe 'twas the noise. Maybe 'twas 
the strangeness. But annyhow, in America she 
would not spake." 

We were nearing the end of our drive. To the 
right was a convent where the Sisters teach the 
peasants lace-making. In their dark-blue habits 
and white-winged bonnets, clustered on the steps 
and in the garden, they were lils:e a flock of doves. 
I looked back at the far-away little cottages, all of 
them connected by those chains of silver that 
stretch invisibly across the Atlantic, and link 
America and Ireland together. And the golden 
chains are tender memories of the old country, 
and, above all, of unforgetting love. 

It was at Mallaranny that Kitty left me in 
answer to Wilham's letter, for, as she predicted, 
he had succeeded in getting his leave. 

" Darling," he wrote, " I am now attached to 



A PLEASANT TOUR 303 

Brigade and Divisional Headquarters as Billeting 
Officer and Interpreter and have been driving 
through one village after another accompanied 
by Mayors, Gardes Champetres, or Town Mayors, 
searching out des logments pour la troupe. Also 
at each place I used to have to arrange a hon 
petit diner for Headquarters. I always managed 
to get a good dinner even in the most paralysing 
sort of places, in spite of a shortage in the ordi- 
nary necessaries which increased in acuteness as 
we reached our destination, and have made quite 
a name for myself in that direction. A sample of 
such a meal would be a Soupe aux Legumes, a 
Homard (tinned). Sauce Mayonnaise, a gigot, 
bought in some town we were passing, or a couple 
of fowls which had to be persuaded out of the 
fermiere by the most urgent arguments — the 
peasants think almost as much of egg-layers now- 
adays as the man in Beranger's verses did of his 
deUiV hceufs blancs. 

*' A Hun plane was brought down just in front 
of the battery this morning before I started out, 
and I will get a bit of it as a souvenir for you. 
I am sorry I can't get you the clock I told you 
of. Price, one of our officers, had a prior claim 
on it as I found out when I tried to take it 
stealthily from the wall. There are also two cats, 
one of which Price is taking home when he gets his 
leave as a souvenir, together with the clock. I 



304 HERSELF- IRELAND 

never did like cats, and never understood them, 
but these two I simply abominate. They are of a 
colossal and unnatural size. The Padre says that 
it is because they have been feeding on the battle- 
field. They are savagely wild and distrustful — 
not that I invite their confidences. One of them 
has been gassed, and periodically he coughs up 
foam. He has also had part of his tail blown 
off. Though one is a female and the other a male 
they are bitter enemies, and spit and snarl in com- 
pany. Needless to say, they have lost their home; 
it may have once existed over the rubbish heap 
which crowns the dug-out. 

" I stumbled across an Australian infantryman 
yesterday. He was washing a Hun helmet — one 
of those Imperial objects with gold on it. They 
are the most recherche of trophies amongst both 
the Tommies and our chaps, and I never could 
make out why. This chap was as proud as Presi- 
dent Roosevelt after a right and left at lions. It 
appears that these helmets are very rare, as they 
are worn by those German soldiers who are so 
proud, daring, and enamoured of tradition that 
they disdain the new-fangled steel helmets. When 
one such is sighted there is a blackguard rush by 
all hands, as my infantry friend said, ' They kill 
him for the hat.' 

" Hurrah! Rah — Rah! as they say in the States, 
I've got my leave, it begins next week, and you 



A PLEASANT TOUR 305 

had better start for London at once. We'll go to 
the Savoy and pretend it's Paris. 

" A brief good-bye, 

"Your devoted Bill." 

I was lonely and could not sleep the night that 
Kitty left me, but the dawn was glorious, and I 
got up early and went down to the sea. The grass 
was covered with threads of gossamer, so fine 
they were suggested rather than seen, the dew- 
drops upon them separated by little spaces, glit- 
tered hke rainbow rosaries, and whole decades 
were strung from bush to tree. As the sun rose 
I left the sands, walked through a wood, and 
reached a field where I saw a hving illustration 
of Lycett's descriptive poem: 

" Gracefully, steadily, easily 
Three men are mowing, 
Bending and rising, they capture the 
Rhythm of rowing. 

" Swish goes the cut of the scythes as they 
Glide all together 
Through the cool stems of the river hay, 
In the hot weather. 

" Then at the end of the swath comes the 
Sound of honing, 
Grating but ringing melodiously 
Like a bee droning. 



306 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" Morning and noon-tide and evening 
Comes a young maiden, 
Porter and buttermilk carrying 
Willingly laden. 

" And while they drink under shadowy 
Willows eternal, 
The meadow distils for them heavenly 
Scent of sweet vernal." 

My mowers glided all together through the cool 
stems of the river hay, and there was the scent 
of sweet vernal, but to my regret no maiden came 
bringing buttermilk — my favourite beverage. I 
asked for it on my return to the hotel, but there 
never seems to be any buttermilk in the country, 
it is all sent to town. 

When Katherine and Alfred who were to be my 
companions on a further tour arrived, being cheer- 
ful people my depression vanished. They have 
both developed great alertness of mind since Al- 
fred meeting Katherine for the second time, on 
the House of Commons' Terrace, asked her to 
marry him. 

Not allowing for love at first sight, and her 
charm and handsome appearance, Katherine said, 
"Marry you! Impossible! You know nothing 
about me, and I know nothing about you." 

" That is why," Alfred said, " I have asked you 
to marry me. I thought it safer while you did 
know nothing about me." 



A PLEASANT TOUR 307 

Then began spirited arguments which did not 
end at the door of the church nor afterwards. 
They have filled each other's hearts, but at the 
same time they whet each other's intellects. And 
they make very stimulating and agreeable com- 
panions. Katherine being an American lady of 
independent thought and action, and Alfred being 
English and conventional to the finger-tips — al- 
though he thinks he's a Radical — there will always 
be subjects upon which they can differ. Occa- 
sionally Katherine feels that she would like a 
calm uncontradicted existence, and takes a week's 
holiday, but on the third day Alfred invariably 
follows her, that her mind may not become torpid. 

Our first stop was at Sligo, an old seaport town, 
with its fine ruin of an Abbey founded in 1252 by 
a Dominican Order. Katherine is by instinct an 
archaeologist, and Alfred and I, at her command, 
went over every inch of that ruin; through clois- 
ters, arches, nave, and choir, but being two to one 
we finally got her to walk in the town, which is 
beautifully situated and surrounded by mountains, 
woods, and water. 

The next day we spent sailing on Lough Gill, 
and agreed that in a different way, a more gentle, 
soft, and friendly way, it was no less beautiful 
than Killarney. The little white electric launch 
glided carefully through shallow water, passed 
pretty old houses, long settled on a grassy bank. 



308 HERSELF— IRELAND 

halted entangled for a moment in long-stemmed 
reeds, and looking down I saw hundreds of min- 
nows wildly swimming about, agonised with fright 
by the sound of our slowly rotating wheel. Then 
wild ducks dived away from us, swam under water 
to the middle of the blue lake, and emerged with 
peevish protests, shaking a thousand sparkling 
drops from iridescent wings. 

When we neared the middle of the lake, the deep 
blue of the water — the reflection of a cloudless 
mid summer sky — was broken by long sheets of 
vivid pink and yellow water-hlies, like yards of 
rose and daffodil velvet thrown upon a monster 
mirror. Little brown ducks, when we came too 
near, splashed away from us, leaving lines of white 
bubbles in their wake; and something from the 
bank, big and soft, slipped into the water and 
dived far up the stream; it might have been a 
furry beaver — the boatman told us they were 
seen now and then. The fohage was lush and 
green, and wild single-leaved roses, generous 
daisies, and coral fuchsias grew to the water's edge. 

A charming little house with " To Let " was on 
the opposite shore; the boatman said the last peo- 
ple who lived there had been very old; now they 
were dead, and the house had been vacant two 
years. There were beds of flowers about it, old 
apple trees near the windows, and a little stable 
in the rear. Always dreaming of a home, I pro- 



A PLEASANT TOUR 309 

posed to Alfred and Katherine that we should 
drive out to see it. They agreed the place looked 
delightful; then manlike, Alfred began to think of 
the future dark days, dampness, winter, and 
loneliness. "It is not for you, you must be near 
your friends." We sailed across the lake near 
the house; it might have been a white cottage — 
except for the loneliness — on Lake George. And 
the kittiwakes, not swimming, but letting the gen- 
tle little waves carry them along not too near the 
boat, followed in our wake. The lake at this point 
began to broaden and widen out, and here and 
there were islands. The boatman pointed to one, 
round and well wooded, where he said a young girl 
lived in a little house, " with a dog, two cows, and 
some bins to kape her company, but except for 
thim she do be all alone. And in the winter 
whin the weather's at the roughest, maybe she 
don't see annybody for weeks." 

"Hug the shore," said Alfred; "we want a 
glimpse of the fair hermit." 

As we approached, a dabchick dived from the 
root of a gnarled oak, and left a yard of bubbles 
behind him. We saw in a small cleared space a 
freshly whitewashed cottage, and heard a dog bark, 
but the girl was probably on shore working for a 
farmer. There was a sweet httle bay tucked in 
a curve for landing; the boatman said before the 
war he had conveyed many picnic parties there; 



310 HERSELF— IRELAND 

now all the young men of Sligo had gone to the 
war. 

How sweet and restful, pure and gentle, the 
thoughts must be of a woman who can live for 
weeks and months entirely alone. What a calm, 
sensible, satisfactory companion she must be to 
herself. I know of an Irish girl who lived by 
herself on a little island in the St. Lawrence River. 
In the summer, for the fishing, she let lodgings 
to a weary, sick-hearted, disillusioned man, and 
she gave him back faith in the sweetness and mod- 
esty of womanhood, and he fell in love with her 
and married her, but that is another story. 

From Sligo to Bundoran we motored through 
lovely country, drank long draughts of the pure 
mountain air, until we reached the sea again, and — 

"Bundoran ! and your summer crowds that run 
From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun ; 
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the 

waves ; 
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy 

caves ; 
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, 

the fish, 
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a 

tender wish. 
And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return." 

One reason I should like to return is that I saw 
s. remarkably pretty, old, black and white china 




H 



Q 
I? 

;?: 

O 

a 

•A 

O 



A PLEASANT TOUR 311 

tea-set in a window, which I have been wanting 
ever since. As the summer crowds that run from 
inland homes filled the hotel to overflowing, and 
our rooms had been engaged days ahead, we only 
remained one night, and dashed off by motor to 
Gweedore, stopping on our way at Ballyshannon, 
where there is a castle, a famous salmon leap, and 
it is the birthplace of Wilham Allingham, the 
essayist and poet who, like so many brilhant Irish- 
men, left it for England, and then wrote of its 
joys: 

" I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced 

to turn — 
So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne! 
No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the 

Mall, 
When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. 
The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she 

creeps. 
Cast off, cast off — she feels the oars, and to her berth 

she sweeps ; 
Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the 

clew. 
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew." 

The fishing in Gweedore is quite as good as that 
of Ballyshannon, the hotel is comfortable, and the 
people who keep it most obliging, as I know from 
a little instantaneous laundry work they did for 
me. My bag had not arrived, and by going to 



312 HERSELF— IRELAND 

bed at nine o'clock — the only time in many years — 
my underlinen and blouse were washed, ironed, 
and brought to my room the next morning at eight 
o'clock. I venture to say that, with all the com- 
plaints of Irish hotels, this willingness to oblige 
would not have happened in any other country. 
There were fishermen who brought back trout and 
salmon for breakfast and dinner, but the war has 
affected that sport; as we were none of us enthusi- 
astic fishermen we made a short stay, and again 
travelled by motor to Leitrim through the Donegal 
Highlands, which were indescribably beautiful. 
They are without trees, but, like all of Ireland, 
carpeted in green. 

The wide undulations of the lofty rolling val- 
leys and hills made rich purple shadows, and the 
little white houses clung like swallows' nests to 
the sides of the steep hills, or burrowed behind a 
rising of the land. The mountains around us were 
over a thousand feet high, many of them green 
with indigenous forests, and finally we skirted the 
border of a still, blue, lonely water, Glen Veigh — 
the Glen of the Silver Birches. 

This region has a tragic history connected in a 
manner with my own state, Texas, for the Adairs 
own cattle ranches there, and the wholesale evic- 
tions from his estate by Mr. John George Adair 
even stirred the people of my far-away land to 
sympathy. From the beginning of his purchase of 



A PLEASANT TOUR 313 

the estate he had been unpopular and wanting in 
understanding of the peasants. Emerson says in 
every condition of hfe there is compensation, so the 
mountaineer has a greater love for the hard, un- 
yielding land than the man who lives in a smiling 
valley. The poor people when evicted were help- 
less for utter despair. A number of emigrants 
from this part of Donegal, having gone to Aus- 
tralia, when they heard of the bitter plight of their 
countrymen sent means for their transportation to 
Australia, and a few of them emigrated to 
Texas. 

Peter Smith, our head gardener, was a Donegal 
man. He saved his wages, set up a greengrocer's 
shop in Austin, and soon became very well off. 
His sister, Mary Smith, a sweet and gentle 
woman, was my nurse. She married Miles Burns, 
a carpenter — how I did resent his taking her 
away from me — but her heavenly twins compen- 
sated me for her loss. They were flesh-and-blood 
doll babies, who could laugh and cry when they 
were bathed, and stretch out their hands and smile 
when they saw me. Miles was a sober and indus- 
trious man, and they lived in a little white cottage 
on the top of a hill, just a stone's throw from 
our house. In the gloaming I used to watch a 
light twinkhng in their window, and a daily plead- 
ing question was, " Mama, can I go and see 
Mary? " There has never been in the whole of 



314, HERSELF— IRELAND 

my life a dearer delight than those visits, for 
Mary, who had always spoiled me, allowed me free 
scope with the twins. I was permitted to nurse 
them, and feed them and undress them, and set 
them side by side in a little bath-tub. At the early 
age of six I couldn't have been an altogether safe 
nurse, and one day I had the misfortune to trip 
and fall with Tommy in my arms. My mother, 
who was coming in through the gate, said, *' Mary, 
I know you are going to make this child of mine a 
murderer; one day she will kill both of the 
twins." 

" Oh, no," said Mary, " they are strong, and 
this is Betty's first accident. She washes them a 
good deal, but I haven't the heart to stop her, 
she seems to enjoy herself so much." 

Miles from a carpenter became a builder, and a 
rich man, and was able to give his children every 
educational advantage. So this beautiful, wild 
mountain district brought back many tender, long- 
forgotten memories to me. 

" There's an old ruined castle down that road," 
said the chauffeur. 

"A ruin!" said Katherine exultantly; "then 
we must see it." How happy it would make her 
to expend her superabundant energy and ex- 
traordinary powers of organisation in restoring 
one. 

" Is the road safe for a motor? " asked Alfred. 



A PLEASANT TOUR 315 

" The road is good enough," I said, " and the 
ruin must be an important one." 

So we backed and turned and travelled along 
by the lake. A flag was flying on the Castle, 
and Katherine enquired of the chauffeur the name 
of the ruin. 

" I don't know," he said, " it belonged to wun 
of thim ould ancient Kings, or maybe 'twas Saint 
Columkill himself; 'twas him that loved the water." 

By this time we were fast nearing the fortress, 
and said I, " Well, Saint or King, he had lovely 
taste in curtains, and apparently they were made 
of everlasting brocade." 

And then we drew up before the portals of Glen 
Veigh, the fine modern castle built by Mr. Adair. 
It stands on a little promontory, jutting out into 
the lake, under the shadow of a mountain which is 
thickly wooded to the top. And it has the sur- 
prise and charm of an oasis in the desert. About 
it nature looms in sohtary grandeur. Lake, forest, 
and hill are primeval, but they surround splendid 
blossoming flower-beds, a rich rose garden, and 
large houses of glass, which give shelter to tropical 
plants, fruit trees, and vines heavy with grapes. 

" I am disappointed," said Katherine, " I ex- 
pected a ruin." 

" I am hungry," said Alfred; " very hungry." 

And we made a great spurt to the Leitrim 
Hotel, an ideal summer inn, built of Norwegian 



316 HERSELF— IRELAND 

pine, with numerous bathrooms, and many large, 
airy bedrooms furnished in excellent taste, and 
Alfred, who loves the sea, found the bathing in 
the Atlantic " glorious." 

Our next little journey from Rosapenna to Port 
Salon, by open car and ferries, was pleasantly 
primitive; we failed to make connections, and 
occasionally sat for a time on the roadside, but our 
cheerfulness was unimpaired by the dampness of a 
grey day. The gay hotel and surroundings give it 
something of a foreign atmosphere. It might be 
a Swiss hotel, the colours are so definite, with blue 
sea, green hills, and salmon-coloured sands. The 
golf-links are divided by a httle river which 
empties into the bay. Everything looked clean 
and fresh, and the air was agreeably exhila- 
rating. 

And then a pleasant motor drive to Cushendall, 
the little, quaint, straggling village which aroused 
Thackeray's admiration to extol its loveliness. 
We walked by the curfew tower, which still rings 
the curfew hour, and through a beautiful avenue of 
trees, to high cliffs that overlook the sea. Destroy- 
ers are anchored there, and sunburnt sailors come 
ashore to cheer the wounded Tommies who are sent 
for convalescence to the cheerful hospital sur- 
rounded by a shady garden. The drive by Cushen- 
dall to Letterkenny around the coast, beneath 
splendid cliffs and close to the sea is something 



A PLEASANT TOUR 317 

to be remembered. A number of carriages were 
waiting about the station, and Katherine wanted 
to operate at once upon a wart, the size of an egg^ 
which stood out from a white-eyed roan horse's 
nose. But on closer examination it proved to 
be part of his lip tied tightly with pink cord to 
discourage him from nipping the passer-by. 

Our time was so limited in Letterkenny it did 
not allow us to drive to Lacknacar to see the flag- 
stone upon which St. Columba was born. The 
peasants say whoever sleeps upon it will never 
suffer from homesickness, and many poor emi- 
grants have spent their last night upon that hard 
bed before leaving Erin, to render their hearts 
stout and unregretful in a strange land. 

No scout on a prairie looking for Indians has a 
better eye for fruit than Katherine, she even found 
strawberries and cherries in Letterkenny, and 
added the basket to our luggage for Derry. It 
must always be Derry for the Irish or those who 
love Ireland — never Londonderry — London being 
superimposed only after English intrigue had pau- 
perised and ruined the little town. There was 
an odour in the hall of the hotel altogether too 
pungent, and even more evident in my room, where 
it proved to be an over-ripe box of melons and 
peaches, a tribute of affection from Kitty, which 
had been waiting our arrival too long. 
, After leaving my bag — but alas! not my um- 



318 HERSELF— IRELAND 

brella — that had been taken from me at Rosa- 
penna, a young, strong, sleek umbrella, in the very 
beginning of its career — it had scarcely been with 
me a month — while the one left in its place, old, 
weak and worn had been with its owner many 
years — I called Katherine, and we saUied forth 
to see the ancient walled town. It has a very beau- 
tiful situation, built on ground that slopes to a hill 
and overlooks the broad river Foyle. The walls 
still stand, and there are evidences of the siege, 
Ferryquay Gate, and " Roaring Meg," in an angle 
of the wall, and the post office is built over the 
place where Murray and Maumont had a hand-to- 
hand encounter, and the Frenchman was slain. 
But there is no monastery or ruin of one, in mem- 
ory of Derry's greatest man, St. Columba, who 
was not only a great saint and scholar, but a man 
of great family, the well-beloved cousin of Prince 
Ainmore, through whose generosity he was able to 
found Durrow and Kells, those wonderful seats 
of learning and of artistic craft. Probably he has 
often turned the pages of the Book of Durrow, 
when he sat under the spreading branches of his 
oak trees, which he loved too well to cut down, 
even for the building of his monastery. It had to 
be fitted in among them. 

I have been taught to love trees. When my 
father built our house in Texas a noble elm inter- 
fered with the balconies at the back of the house. 



A PLEASANT TOUR 319 

and rather than cut it down, both the upper and 
lower balcony were built around it. 

St. Columba was priest, poet, and warrior, pay- 
ing dearly for his valour, as after he had lost a 
battle against the King at Tara — probably if he 
had gained a victory it might have been different— 
St. Malaise sent him out of the country to preach 
a repentant Gospel in Scotland. 

We looked in the shops to find a picture or 
statue of St. Columba, but there were none. 
Katherine bought a dozen — so-called — ^Waterford 
tumblers; they might have been made in Belfast, 
but they were undoubtedly old, of generous pro- 
portions, a good colour, and well cut. Alfred 
when he saw a basket of precious glass which had 
to be carefully handled, was, to put it mildly, 
restive. He made a few pertinent remarks about 
the ways of American women, but what was more 
to the point, he carried the basket. It is not 
difficult for an Englishman to be persuaded by 
his American wife to American ways, but Kath- 
erine has actually persuaded Alfred to look like an 
American. Any stranger would take him to be a 
good-looking, well-set-up New Yorker. 

There are good shops in Derry, and it is clean 
and prosperous looking, a much pleasanter town 
than Belfast, but there are no manufactures, ex- 
cept the making of shirts, which only employs a 
limited number of women. The chief interest of 



320 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Derry lies in the decades of the picturesque past 
rather than in her present, and perhaps in her 
future, if Ireland awakes to the prosperity which is 
her due. 

The world points to Belfast as an example of 
what shipbuilding and trade can accomplish in Ire- 
land, but to me Belfast was a great disappoint- 
ment. It has a large and ornate city hall, a very 
fine technical college, and unequalled — so they told 
me — linen manufactories. Almost the first thing 
I noticed was " Lyons," being woven on a satin- 
smooth tablecloth — but the wages, the hours, and 
the housing of the workers excited my profound 
sympathy. The lads were pale, with thin, round 
shoulders, and the girls looked tired, underfed, and 
dispirited. 

The highest wages earned by a woman are 
twenty-five shillings a week, but few ever attain 
this princely sum. The little girls of thirteen and 
fourteen earn perhaps half a crown a week, and 
running between school in the morning and to a 
factory in the afternoon makes them an easy prey 
during the winter to pneumonia and bronchitis. 
All day the girls are standing bare-footed in the 
over-heated factories on wet tiles, and they catch 
cold going home. And they are even worse off in 
the dry-spinning rooms, where they breathe a fluff 
called pouce. The throat and lungs are often 
affected by it, and many of the women die of con- 



A PLEASANT TOUR 321 

sumption. The average woman worker dies under 
forty. Many of the houses where these poor peo- 
ple live are condemned, but the Corporation re- 
mains indifferent to their demolishment. The 
mortality of babies is very high, and the little chil- 
dren are ragged, dirty, and ill cared for, as must 
be the case with their mothers all day in the 
factories. 

The prosperity of a community built up through 
starvation wages, misery, disease, and death is not 
prosperity to me. And the outworker is scarcely 
an improvement upon the factory girl. I always 
loved dots until I went to Belfast, then I saw 
many dozens of pocket-handkerchiefs embroidered 
in dots above the hem, and for three days' work an 
experienced embroideress received two shillings. 
Even the most persevering worker, not shirking 
early or late hours, cannot make more than nine 
shillings a week. These are fine, free Protestants, 
not under the domination of the priests, but con- 
trast them with Cathohc girls employed by the 
Sisters, who receive a living wage, have healthy, 
bright rooms to work in, and hours possible to the 
maintenance of health. No, to me Belfast is a 
living argument against wealth made through the 
bitter necessity of a people unable to cope with the 
Capitahst. It smacks of smugness and self-satis- 
faction, and a want of Christian charity. Some- 
thing of the hard, unrelenting character of Chi- 



322 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Chester, who wrote in 1609 of the native Irish, " I 
spare neither house, corn, nor creature, none of 
any quahty, age, or sex whatsoever, beside many 
being burned to death, we kill men, women, horse, 
beast, or whatsoever we find," still obtains. 

Curiously enough Belfast, whose sympathy was 
active for Republican America and Republican 
France, is devoid of sympathy for Republican 
Ireland. Katherine's grandfather was a North of 
Ireland gentleman who went to America for 
greater freedom. And in spite of the prosperity of 
the North and of Belfast, emigration continues to 
America. All the people to whom I talked, man- 
agers, foremen in the factories, and factory hands 
had relations in the United States. I did not see 
the great factory for mineral waters, or tobacco, 
where things may be better managed than in the 
linen factories, and women for some reason or 
other are no longer allowed to enter the shipping 
yards, but it was as well; we were not sorry to 
leave Belfast. 

I carried the pleasantest memory of it away with 
a giant bouquet of roses, tied by green ribbons dan- 
ghng a little black pig for good luck. It was given 
me by a charming, warm-hearted Irish girl, who 
had heard a glorified account of my character from 
a nurse in London, who applied radium to my face 
in the Radium Institute where I was treated for a 
burn. And the accident happened me in Buffalo, 



A PLEASANT TOUR 323 

New York — consequences — consequences — all the 
way across the sea to flowers and a bog-oak 

pig- 
How intoxicating the fresh air of Portrush and 

the Giant's Causeway is after Belfast, but even 
among the wonders of the world Alfred was at- 
tacked with a sudden desire for home. He and 
Katherine turned their steps Londonward, and I 
crossed country to Claremorris and Katherine Ty- 
nan, stopping for a night and a day to see Ennis- 
killen, a very pretty, picturesque, hilly town on 
the lovely green banks of Lough Neagh. My 
room in a clean country hotel looked on the waters 
of the lake. 

The night was bright with moonlight, but the 
next morning I awoke to find it raining — Irish 
fashion — clear, clean drops from a silvery sky, and 
I ventured forth to the fair, which had that morn- 
ing been opened. There were good horses, a red 
roan with brown eyes was an enviable animal, fine 
cows, fat sheep, a collection of adorable collie pup- 
pies, and in the exhibition rooms, some beautiful 
embroidery, one collar was equal to the best 
French needlework, and an interesting show of 
flowers. I lingered near a pot of Helenium Cu- 
preum — nigger heads it is called in Texas, where 
acres of it grow — and memory obliterated the 
scene around me. I was a little girl again riding a 
stout mustang pony over a wide Texas prairie, the 



324 HERSELF— IRELAND 

warm summer wind bending the grass like waves 
of the sea, and my father off his horse gathering 
armfuls of " nigger heads " and blue bonnets, bind- 
ing them together with ribbons of grass and sling- 
ing them at the back of my saddle — so long ago — 

so far away, and here to-day in Ireland The 

silvery sky had darkened to grey and it poured in 
torrents; there was nothing for me to do but get 
back to the hotel and read Douglas Hyde's Love 
Songs of ConnacTit, a light, convenient, paper- 
bound book to carry in one's bag. Moorneen of 
the Fair Hair lived in Enniskillen, 

*' My grief that I and thou 

Oh young maiden without melancholy 
Are not in the dark island of Lough Erne, 

Or beneath the dark woods of the rods. 

Where the birds make their nests 
And (there is) growth to the top of the boughs. 

Or in a little valley beside a bay 

Where the cuckoo speaks. 
And the sea from the north to be beside us 

Myself and my secret 

Without sleep or slumber. 
But playing in a corner together. 

" My grief that I am not in the churchyard 

Along with my kindred friends. 
Or on the top of a hill making a dwelling, 

Before you chanced into my net 

Doubling the wounds in my heart, 



A PLEASANT TOUR 325 

And you turned my locks like a sloe-berry. 

Short affection from a woman, 

It only lasts a month; 
But it is like a whiff of the March wind. 

Oh treasure, it were not right to sell me 

On account of a little riches 
And in the future let your mind be satisfied with me." 

What a distinguished song of love, and how 
redolent of the Irish woods, and sky, and sea. 

*' O ! dear little mother, give him myself ; 
Give him the cows and the sheep altogether. 
Go yourself a-begging for alms, 
And go not west or east to look for me." 

Isn't this charming verse the quintessence of 
love's selfishness? To make me happy, give all 
you have to my darling even if it leaves you a 
beggar. Barry Pain makes his charwoman ex- 
plain the same sentiment in a different manner. 

" If," says Mrs. Murphy, " a girl's really in 
love, and you say to her, ' Your young man 
poisoned his mother,' she says, ' Well, I've no 
doubt there were faults on both sides.' " 

It rained all night, and the next morning I 
started early on my long journey to Claremorris, 
to make and to enjoy a visit to Katherine Tynan 
Hinkson, a delightful woman, happy in her reli- 
gion, her husband, her children, and her work. 
When the Hmksons lived in London, she and 



326 HERSELF— IRELAND 

her husband in the early days of spring were 
taking a walk in Hyde Park, being the best of 
friends it gives them pleasure to do many things 
together. The air was mild, the sun shone, and the 
Park was full of people, but they succeeded in 
finding a seat unoccupied except for a very shabby, 
grease-bespattered coat forgotten by its owner. 
Katherine Tynan pushed it aside, but her husband 
said, " I must try and find the owner of that coat." 

" Don't do anything of the kind," said K. T., 
" sit yourself down and enjoy this enchanting 
weather." 

"K. T.," her husband said, "I don't know 
whether it's that you are an Irish Catholic, or 
whether it is natural to you, but you have a lax 
conscience. Isn't it my duty to try and find the 
owner of this top-coat? " 

" No," said K. T., " I don't think it is, it doesn't 
look at all as if it belonged to a nice man; your 
duty is to let it alone, and amuse me." 

" There," he said, *' is the Irish Cathohc again, 
pleasure before business always," and with that he 
put the coat over his arm and started down the 
path, meeting at a few paces a red-nosed, unpre- 
possessing individual, who said to him sharply, 
" Here, where are you going with that there 
coat? " 

" Oh," said Mr. Hinkson, as befitted a courteous 
Irish Protestant, " I was just in the act of try- 



A PLEASANT TOUR 327 

ing to find the owner, allow me to restore it to 

you." 

" That's a pretty tale, that is," said the man, " if 
you didn't intend pinchin' that coat why didn't 
you leave it be on the seat? You was tryin' to 
make away with my coat, that's what you was, an' 
only for me hurry in' to catch a train, I'd report 
you an' your fine manners to the p'leece, that's 
what I would." 

And then the Irish Catholic laughed long and 
heartily, and the Irish Protestant sat down and 
was silent. 

I smiled as I remembered how well " K. T." had 
told this story. What a true poet she is, and how 
many wise and tender things she has said, and 
none of them wiser than: "With congenial work 
one is always happy. When Pandora let all the 
evils fly into the world out of that unlucky box, 
it was not hope that stayed at the bottom but 
work." And when a moment comes of devastating 
despair there is nothing so helpful as bodily effort. 
I can understand the poor mother who said, when 
news was brought of her only son being killed in 
battle, " Take me into my garden and let me dig. 
Oh, my God, let me dig." A spring cleaning, tak- 
ing up carpets, putting them down, washing china, 
and pohshing furniture can be a solace to the 
heaviest heart, I know — for I have tried it. 



CHAPTER XVI 

GAL WAY, AN OLD CITY OF THE WEST 

Roger Casement said of Galway, " Its ruin and 
decay appal me, and its trans-Atlantic mind," but 
in spite of the look, that it has been bombed, there 
are so many houses with tumbling walls and gap- 
ing windows, guiltless of glass or sash — my memo- 
ries of the days spent in Galway are cheerful. 

For one thing, the sun shone with long, level 
brilliant rays, as if they came all the way from 
America, and, indeed, there is no place in Ireland 
so connected with my own land by thousands of 
invisible chains as Galway. For centuries emi- 
grants from the west of Ireland have steadily 
poured into the port of New York, and every 
young man and young woman with whom I talked 
told me they were only waiting for the end of the 
war to sail for America. Some of the youths had 
been already turned back from Liverpool, and I 
remembered that since 1851, when statistics were 
last collected, to September, 1916, 4,314,781 per- 
sons had left Ireland — over two million of them 
were men; and deplorable as it is to be compelled 
to leave their country, in our friendly and gener- 
ous land, many sad and embittered hearts have 

328 



GALWAY 329 

found compensation in hope, contentment, and 
prosperity. To some we have given even more. 

There are few Irishmen at home or abroad who 
do not know of the existence and influence of that 
chivalrous paper Tlie Boston Pilot. It has, for the 
honour of humanity, espoused many a weak but 
deserving cause, and it rose to importance and 
influence under the editorship of John Boyle 
O'Reilly, a Fenian who had been sent to penal 
servitude in Austraha, but escaped with the help 
of the jailor's daughter, took an open boat to sea, 
was picked up by a whaling ship from Massa- 
chusetts, and landed at Boston. After a life of 
splendid endeavour, when he died the brief epitaph, 
" Ireland gave him birth, England gave him exile, 
America gave him fame," was as great a tribute to 
the land of his adoption as to his genius. Much 
as he loved Ireland, and greatly as he had suffered 
for her, he must have loved his healing foster- 
mother more. Men desire above all things fame; 
and his wreath of laurel had been woven and given 
him by America. 

Many of the signers of the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence, that great triumphant paper of Liberty, 
were Irishmen. Charles Thompson, the reader of 
those immortal words that thrilled the world on the 
4th of July, 1776, was born in Ireland, so was 
Matthew Thornton, James Smith, George Taylor, 
and George Read ; while Thomas McKean, Charles 



330 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Carroll, Edward Rutledge, and Thomas Lynch 
were of Irish extraction; therefore it is natural 
that our country is regarded by Irishmen as a land 
of promise, flowing with milk and honey. But 
their prowess and success in other lands drain the 
very life blood from Ireland. And never can she 
have real prosperity until two things happen — an 
Irish Government formed of Irish people to gov- 
ern Irish people, and a law, even if it should 
create a revolution, to close all public-houses. 
' How can any country hope to succeed with, as 
an eminent divine told me, eighty-six public-houses 
in a village of one thousand five hundred inhabi- 
tants. And never have I seen human beings more 
sodden with drink than in Galway. Faces a deep 
purple red, bloated and dropsical, and hands that 
trembled as if they suffered from shell-shock. 
These were middle-aged and old men and women, 
for drink is not so easily discerned in the young. 
And this picturesque and interesting old town 
swarms with public-houses. 

There was a popular bar in my hotel, con- 
veniently situated for its numerous patrons. While 
I waited for a jaunting-car a woman came in to 
beg. Tall and straight as a young sapling, her 
hair was a dusty black, and her skin was dried 
and tanned by sun and wind, but the bone struc- 
ture of her face was beautiful. The forehead low 
and broad, the delicate nose straight, and the chin 



GALWAY 331 

slightly tilted was round and pure in outline. 
Her eyes were sullen and mysterious, and they 
were swollen underneath by drink. She had a 
child by the hand, a veritable Cinderella, who if 
dressed in muslin and lace might have been mis- 
taken for a fairy princess, so perfect was her little 
figure and her little dark face. Like her mother, 
she held her body erect, and her ragged dress 
reaching barely to her knees, showed straight, 
brown legs, slim ankles, and narrow feet with in- 
dications of well-arched insteps. The sleeves of 
her frock were torn away above the elbows, and 
her round forearms, thin hands, and taper fingers 
were charmingly perfect. Her wavy hair was 
black and her serious, unchildlike eyes a clear grey, 
darkened by black lashes. I gave the mother a 
trifle, and this encouraged her to importune other 
visitors. When the manager came to tell me my 
car was on the way, he bade her go; but she 
lingered until he spoke to her with some severity, 
the child looking up at him all the time with her 
wondering, patient, accusing eyes. 

When the woman finally departed I said to him, 
" Do you think that beggar would give me her 
lovely little girl? " 

" Glory be to God, no! " said he. " If so be you 
but mintioned such a thing to her she would call 
down curses on your head, and on the hotel, and 
we might have to get in the p'leece." 



332 HERSELF— IRELAND 

My jarvey was young and talkative; he told me 
he had got as far as Liverpool, had been turned 
back, and was only waiting for the war to end be- 
fore he sailed to join two brothers and three sis- 
ters, who had all preceded him. 

" That," he said, " will lave me mother and 
father alone, but thim in America do be sendin' 
every week money to kape thim, an' they have 
enough, an' somethin' now and thin to spare for a 
neighbour. An' besides what comes fro^ the 
States, me mother has the understanding hand on 
her for bins. They will lay for her, whin they 
won't for annybody else in the County Galway. 
A young lady came to see her once, she was from 
the Agricultural Department, where they learn 
things out of books, an' she told herself to buy 
some hard English eggs, an' they would hatch out 
feather-legged yeller chickens called Buff Orping- 
tons. The grandest layers that iver was. An' me 
mother bought six, an' Betty, that's the little black 
bin that does be doin' all me mother bids her, set 
on the eggs an' scraped thim great things to her 
thin body wid her wings, an' wun day thim eggs 
was hatched, an' six tall p'leecemen of chickens 
kept poor Betty busy findin' food for thim. One 
of thim baby Buffs — they had regular John Bull 
appetites — ate as much as three Irish chicks, an' 
me mother had to put double the meal in the pan, 
but she said whin they began to lay thim big sohd 



GALWAY 333 

eggs it would be grand. At first, whin they was 
so greedy an' gawky, we thought all of thim was 
cocks, but four of thim was preparin' to be bins. 
An' little good did that be doin', for divil of an egg 
did they lay whin they was bins. Day after day 
they threatened, but it was like the English Par- 
liament givin' the Irish People Home Rule, they 
only give hope. An' thim bins didn't give eggs to 
me mother, they only give her hope. If you'll 
belave it, in two years all thim bins bechune thim 
only give one egg.^^ 

" Then the common or garden chickens are the 
best?" 

" Common Irish garden or backyard chickens is 
certainly the best. Whin the lady come agin, me 
mother complained of the Buffs, an' the lady said 
it was the climate of Galway, it didn't suit thim. 
So now me mother keeps to the ones she knows 
likes Galway. Betty had a fine brood this year, 
twelve of her own an' two she foster-mothered, an' 
the old grey bin has siven." 

" Is this Salthill? " I asked, as the tonic, invigo- 
rating air blew across my face. 

" 'Tis the same, lady." 

" Then if you please I'll get down and walk." 

I passed humble hotels and lodging-houses filled 
with people a-holidaying ; they bathe at all hours 
of the day, and drink salt water as a tonic, and 
they looked fine specimens of humanity. Tall 



334 HERSELF— IRELAND 

young fathers, and rosy-cheeked mothers and 
babies. Vigorous old men and women, and strong, 
clean-skinned girls chatted on balconies and door- 
steps, or loitered on the sidewalk. One girl with- 
out a hat came towards me, her little sister bal- 
anced on her broad shoulders, the baby hands 
clinging to her massive braids of hair; she smiled 
as our paths crossed, and I thought: 

" I do not find a treasury 
Of perfect features, perfectly 
Planned with a sculptor's symmetry, 
But a face that is full of energy 
Yet soft like an old-time melody 
In the haunting Celtic minor key." 

There must be something in the climate productive 
of hair and eyelashes, for they both grow to an 
abnormal length in the county of Galway. I saw 
perfect manes of splendid red hair and black hair, 
and silvery fair hair, and nut-brown hair, and 
black-brown hair. They brought to memory the 
description a friend who lives in Smyrna gave me 
of the women who once a year stand in rows in the 
market-place, exhibiting and offering their wares 
for sale. They come from a certain province in 
Asia Minor, where the climate and water are all 
conducive to the growth of hair ; and these peasant 
women count upon selling their long braids at least 
thrice in a lifetime. 



GALWAY 335 

I said to the chambermaid who was preparing 
my bath in the evening, " What thick hair you 
have! " 

" It's been thicker," she said, " 'Tis long still, 
not far from my knees, but sure 'tis nothing to me 
cousin Noreen, she that wint to America; the ends 
struck her ankles, an' 'twas six fair plaits she had, 
three of them on ayther side of her head, an' the 
American lady she wint to live wid was so sthruck 
wid it, she had her let the plaits go free, an' her 
photograph tuk like that. I was offered in Belfast 
tin shillings a week to sit three days wid me hair 
hangin' down over a chair in a windy." 

"And did you do it?" 

" No, indade, I'd been ashamed of me life sittin' 
there, an' every man jack in the town lukin' at me 
loose hair." 

" Splendid hair is a great beauty," I said. 

"I think more depinds on the nose," she said; 
" you can twist bits into your hair, but you can't 
twist a bit on to your nose, nor take it off nayther. 
We've all got hair, me mother an' father an' all. 
Me aunt's is well below her knees, an' not a grey 
hair, though she is sixty an' more. It's black yet. 
An' me father had a fine crop whin he died, an' 
him one hundred and two." 

" What! " I said; " he was more than a hundred 
years old? " 

*' An' the priest said if he had been rightly 



336 HERSELF— IRELAND 

counted up, he'd have a hundred an' four. Sure 
these men in the west do be Hvin' a great while. 
Me father was sixty whin he married me mother; 
she said he didn't look it, she was twinty, an' they 
was married forty-two years whin he died, but the 
priest said as me mother was so young, me father 
tuk off a little." 

" And were they happy? " 

" Sure as happy as the day was long, an* me 
mother had sivin childer. I have five brothers scat- 
tered about the world. Two in the Army, an' sure 
if the Germans don't shoot thim I'll shoot thim 
meself whin they come home, I'm that disgusted 
wid thim for jinin' up." 

" Then you're a Sinn Feiner? " I said. 

Her eyes flashed. 

** It matters not what I am. I don't hould 
wid the English, an* 'tis their war, an' they wid 
no family feelin' fightin' their own flesh an' blood. 
Sure ain't the German Imp'ror first cousin to 
George, an' him first cousin to the Russian Im- 
p'ror. An' what's it all about annyway, this cruel 
war? I've got two sinsible brothers in America, an' 
one in Australia, an' me sister married, an' me 
hotellin'. Did ye ever hear of SHeve Donagh? 
I was there two years. It's a grand place by the 
sea, an' the golf links all around it, an' flowers 
an' grass growin' just outside the windy s. 

" Quare things can happen in hotels. The last 



GALWAY 337 

summer I was there a young gintleman come wid 
his sweetheart an' her sister, an' they tuk rooms 
on my floor. She was a fine, handsome girl, but 
his father had tried to break off the match and 
couldn't. One evenin' there was a dance, an' she 
said she had a headache an' left the ballroom, an' 
made him stay wid her sister. The next mornin' 
he reported to the office he had lost tin pounds, an* 
I was that upset — oh, I couldn't slape — 'twas my 
rooms ye see. They got a detective from Belfast, 
an' he asked me manny and manny a question^ 
* Where was I that evenin', and was the door 
locked, an' did I notice anny strangers in the hall 
or near the gintleman's door ? ' An' I said, * No, 
not a one but the young lady he was goin* to 
marry; I didn't know if she was comin* from his 
room, but she was near his door,* an* thin the de- 
tective frowned that deep, an' said that was 
enough. An' after that he questioned the young 
lady; he had eyes that wint to the back of your 
head, until she got so nervous she broke down, an' 
said, * I won't betray meself, I won't, I won't, you 
can't make me.' 

" The detective called the young man then and 
said, * This young lady has the money, and will 
return it to you.' The young man turned white 
and said, * I don't want it ; leave us, please.' An' 
no one knows what passed between thim two, but 
that afternoon he left the hotel, an* I heard he 



338 HERSELF— IRELAND 

wint home, an' *twas for iver over between 
thim." 

"Why did she steal from the man she was 
going to marry ? '* I asked. 

** It come out that she was extravagant, an* 
wanted the money, an' she knew he had it, an' she 
was too proud to ask for it so she tuk it." 

This indeed was a case of grotesque false pride, 
but what a lucky man to find out the character of 
the woman he loved before, instead of after, mar- 
riage. The next day of brilliant sunshine, I set to 
work in industrious earnest to become acquainted 
with Galway. An open car conveyed me to the 
splendid harbour. On our way we passed two 
tall, fair men walking rapidly, and my jarvey told 
me they were the Squires Burke. After all these 
generations they looked hardy Normans, showing 
their right to be called, in 1170, de Burgo. 

In Ireland, even the peasants make mention of 
the twelfth or thirteenth century as if it were 
yesterday; and why not, speaking as they do the 
language of the demigods, and of the first man 
and the first woman? There are archaeologists 
who claim that Adam and Eve, and that persua- 
sive and meddlesome serpent, of course, spoke in 
Gaelic to each other in the Garden of Eden. 

The most interesting part of Galway is the 
Claddagh, a picturesque little white straw- 
thatched, irregular village, where the hardy fishing 




X 



GALWAY 339 

people speak Irish, and have their own laws and 
by-laws, and are remarkably free from crime. The 
old Claddagh marriage rings are much sought 
after, and are not only interesting as curios, but 
are beautiful in themselves ; being hand-carved out 
of pure gold; the hard edges are worn away, and 
the model is a little heart held by two hands, the 
whole device being surmounted by a crown. And 
these rings have slight differences according to 
the taste and the hand of the artisan. The white 
hamlet which sparkled in the sunshine is said to be 
just outside the city proper, but with the ancient 
walls crumbled and destroyed, the line is in- 
visible. There were two picturesque old-fashioned 
craft in the harbour, their strong patched terra- 
cotta sails set for a voyage to Arran. 

It was not far to drive from the Claddagh to 
Queen's College. The grounds were pleasant and 
the custodian gathered me a little sweet-smelling 
bouquet of pinks, verbena, and geranium. There 
were no students as it was in August, and though 
the College was a fine quadrangular building, in 
fair condition, it gave me the impression of sad- 
ness. The newer diocesan College built on a hill 
is more cheerful, commanding a view of the water. 

We drove through the town to the Church of St. 
Nicholas — the patron saint of the children of all 
nationalities, Santa Claus, or Kris Kringle, as the 
case may be — it is of architecture to the taste 



340 HERSELF— IRELAND 

of the generous Saint, low, broad, and inviting; 
although the doors are locked on week days since 
it fell into the hands of the Protestants. How 
beautiful it must look at Christmas, dressed with 
the beloved pine trees of the Saint of Gifts, 
blazing with candles, and twinkling with stars. 
Although it was erected in 1320, it is undefaced 
by the many centuries that have crumbled so 
much else in Ireland. 

In the inside of the church the tombs are lightly 
carved, and reminiscent of Spain — probably a 
Spanish artist carved them, as in the twelfth and 
thirteenth centuries there was constant traffic be- 
tween Galway, Spain, and Portugal, which ac- 
counts for the decidedly Spanish type of many of 
the people. Another indication of their descent 
is the popularity of yellow; a colour whose decora- 
tive qualities are not properly understood save in 
Spanish countries. 

It was midday when we drove close to the weir; 
the hands were coming out of the woollen mills, 
and a number of the girls and even the men, wore 
a touch of yellow. Always interested in manufac- 
tures, I appreciated the honest stuffs woven in 
this prosperous mill. Not a thread is used except 
pure wool, which is sheared from the mountain 
sheep in Connaught. And the material, when 
made up into garments for men and women, will 
stand any amount of hard wear, and neither 



GALWAY 341 

lose their colour nor shape. If one or two of the 
fashionable Paris houses would place these cloths 
and tweeds advantageously upon the market, the 
industry would at once leap into wide popularity. 
There are other and more primitive industries at 
work, and I saw a quaint establishment that would 
have delighted an artist. It was a combination of 
power-looms, hand-looms, spinning- jennies, and a 
flour mill, and was a most homely, floury, ram- 
shackle, cheerful place. 

A never-to-be-forgotten tragic link between 
Galway and Spain is the story of James Lynch 
Fitzstephen, another Irish Spartan father, and his 
son. In 1493 ships sailed from Spain to Galway 
laden with fine cargoes; silks and laces, fans and 
wine, fair linen cloths, keen swords of damascened 
steel, and green and ruby heavy-stemmed wine- 
glasses. In exchange they were loaded with great 
bales of soft, thick Irish cloth of wool, skins cured 
and uncured, wolf -skins, and wild-cat skins, Irish 
flannel, and salted salmon and pickled eels, and 
in the winter, cargoes of mutton and lamb. 

To encourage and better the understanding be- 
tween the two countries, James Lynch, the Mayor 
of Galway, made a voyage to Spain. He received 
lavish hospitahty from the rich merchants, but 
especially from Senor Gomez of Cadiz; and, in 
reciprocation of his kindness, he begged to take 
back to Ireland his host's son, a young Spanish 



342 HERSELF— IRELAND 

grandee about the age of his own boy. The visit 
at first proved a happy inspiration, for the two 
young men became as brothers, riding together, 
playing games together, choosing the same friends, 
and, also, the same inamorata. 

The lady was doubtless beautiful, and a co- 
quette, leaving both men in doubt, or perhaps giv- 
ing encouragement first to one and then to the 
other. At the moment when she was lavishing her 
sweetness on Gomez, Lynch, in a wild passion of 
jealousy, slew his rival and threw his body into 
the sea. With remorse quickly gnawing at his 
vitals, he fled into the woods, remained there all 
night, but when morning came determined to con- 
fess his crime and give himself up to justice. 

As he walked towards the town he met his 
father, James Lynch, stern as an implacable Fate, 
commanding a squad of armed men. He was ar- 
rested, his hands bound behind him, and marched 
to the prison, which stood just opposite the 
Mayor's house. His agonised mother and his two 
younger sisters saw him enter the jail and leave 
it the next morning to suffer his summary trial. 

It only occupied one day, for the broken-hearted 
boy fully confessed everything. With his blood 
turned to ice, his father pronounced him guilty and 
sentenced him to be hanged. But the mother's 
heart, the one human refuge that never fails in 
time of stress or trouble, and only becomes more 



GALWAY 343 

tender and protecting in sorrow or disgrace, rose 
up in revolt. 

Madame Lynch belonged to the Blakes, a 
powerful faction, who came to her rescue and 
added their entreaties with hers to her husband for 
mercy. When the stern father proved adamant, 
they forbade any man to ex:ecute the boy. Even 
though he had outraged hospitality, a more sacred 
thing in those far-off days than now, he was their 
townsman, their kinsman, and they were relieved to 
obey this order. 

But they had not counted on the misguided 
sense of justice of James Lynch himself, who, 
when he accompanied his son from prison, and was 
deprived of his armed escort by the howling mob, 
seized the boy with iron grasp, led him up the 
stairs from the street, and, in full sight of the 
momentarily paralysed crowd, executed him. He 
stood afterwards waiting — perhaps hoping — who 
knows, that his own life would be taken, but a 
cold horror had numbed the hearts and even the 
hands of the tempestuous crowd who had witnessed 
the dreadful deed. In a pitiful silence, like a tor- 
tured spirit, this strange and unaccountable man 
disappeared into his house, never to cross the door- 
step again. And I daresay he was left unmolested 
in his seclusion, for who wishes to invite a hang- 
man, and such a unique hangman, to rout or 
festive gathering? Some member of the Lynch 



344 HERSELF— IRELAND 

family, six generations later, erected on the place 
of execution a death's head and crossbones in 
black marble. But no monument was necessary 
to keep this tragedy from being forgotten. 

Curiously enough, " Lynch law " expresses the 
lightning-quick execution of the mob regardless of 
law, whereas the man from whom it derived its 
name sacrificed his own flesh and blood to Consti- 
tutional law. The French seem to me to be much 
more understanding in dealing with a crime pas- 
sional. Jealousy makes the noblest men and 
women temporarily insane ; we all admire and weep 
over Othello, and yet an English jury will con- 
vict a man who slays his rival, when in all such 
cases, justice should be tempered with mercy. But 
all capital punishment is, and has ever been, a blot 
upon civilisation. It gives the criminal no time 
for repentance, and it brutalises the minions of 
the law who execute him. The very contemplation 
of it is depressing. 

There is nothing so good for the darkness of the 
spirit as the brightness of the sun, so I struck out 
for a good long walk in the country. A little 
green boreen tempted me from the main road, and 
I had not gone far when I noticed a new little 
cottage partly finished. It looked comfortable, ex- 
cept for the windows, which were much too small. 
The hall was fairly wide, with a door at the end 
which opened out to what would be in the future a 



GALWAY 345 

garden. There were two rooms, one quite a good 
size, and a nice little kitchen with hot and cold 
water-taps, and a practical-looking range stamped 
with an American Eagle. I went upstairs, there 
were three bedrooms and, to my great astonish- 
ment, a bathroom with an enamelled iron bath, a 
stationary washstand, and a medicine cupboard 
painted white with a looking-glass in the door. As 
I left the houGe I saw a middle-aged man standing 
in the boreen smoking a pipe. 

"What a nice little house," I said; "do you 
know anything about it? " 

" It's a grand house, a grand house, indeed, and 
I know all about it." 

"Then," I said, "it's your house?" 

" In a manner of spakin' it is, for Herself and 
Meself will live there, but 'tis Maggie's house in 
the law. We wanted it like that on account of the 
other childer, so Maggie won't have anny trouble 
whin we're gone." 

" Maggie's in America? " I said. 

" Thrue for you an' she is; but how did ye know 
that? " 

" I saw an American bath-tub and range," I 
said. " I am an American, and know my country's 
manufactures. Did Maggie send them over? " 

" 'Twas she that done the same, an' whin Tom 
Murphy — ^he it is that's buildin' the house — first 
saw the like, he said he'd build no house with such 



346 HERSELF— IRELAND 

tomfoolery in it. But Maggie wrote him a sooth- 
erin' letter — she can put the comether on anny- 
body, Maggie can — an* thin he give in, an' got a 
plumber from Galway; an' Maggie was plazed 
whin we wrote her that." 

" Does Maggie know how small the windows 
are? " I asked. " People in America love big win- 
dows, they wouldn't put up with Tom Murphy's 
four little panes of glass for a minute." 

" They would," said the old man, " if they 
knew Tom Murphy. He's a grand carpenter, an' 
he does grand work, but he must have his own way 
an' take his own time. We was boys together." 

" All the more reason why he should do what 
you want. In the large room downstairs and in 
Maggie's room, ask him to make the windows 
larger. I know Maggie loves sunshine and air." 

" Thrue for you," said the man, " perhaps one 
might, over a glass — but Tom Murphy likes thim 
windys. Herself wanted thim larger, but he was 
so put about over the bath-tub she said, ' Let the 
crathur be.' " 

" Maggie must like space, and new ways, and 
new things," I said, " or she wouldn't have sent the 
bath-tub." 

*' She would not," said her father, " she would 
not. And we must think of Maggie ; she's a credit 
to Oireland and to America. She calls herself a 
Yankee now." 



GALWAY 347 

"What does Maggie do?" I asked. 

"She's a writer," said her father. 

" You mean, she writes on a machine? '* 

" That's it, it's on wun of thim machines, an' 
she says there's none better in Chicago than her- 
self. Even the min can't kape up wid her. She's 
wid a big firrum; 'tis thim made the bath-tub and 
the range they give her, whin they found out she 
was buildin' a house for her mother. The man 
what owns the business is Irish too; he's a Cork 
man." 

" How did Maggie happen to go to America? " 
I asked. 

" I think she was born to it," her father said. 
" She was always quick, Maggie was, * Nimble 
Feet ' her mother used to call her whin she was 
almost a baby. An' soon she had nimble fingers, 
an' cud milk the cow, an' sew, an' she learned to 
write before anny of the childer her own age. 
An' thin her sister, who was fifteen years older 
than Maggie, got married and went to Chicago. 
Her husband is doin' grand, but they have eight 
childer, an' all they cud do for Maggie was to 
give her a home," — eight mouths to feed, and yet 
they welcomed gladly their kin from across the 
sea, these generous Irish hearts. — " Our three 
bhoys wais all in America, they are all married, an' 
it was HerseK thought she couldn't give Maggie 
up. She was the last an' we clung to her, but the 



348 HERSELF— IRELAND 

colleen longed to go. She learned the machine in 
Galway, an' she cud make marks on paper an' 
write it out afterwards " 

" Shorthand," I said. 

" That's it," he said. " Before she wint there 
was a place waitin' for her. An' now she writes 
an' says she has a great speed on the machine, an' 
often she can answer the letters for the firrum 
widouth a wor-rd from the boss. An' she is rich, 
Maggie is, wid five pound a week. Whin a neigh- 
bour wrote an' said the roof was laking on her 
mother, 'twas she sint a letter to Tom Murphy, 
an' it was not impty. That letter had sixty 
pounds; more was to come, an' she told Tom 
Murphy to build a house." 

" Right away," I said. 

" 'Twas that, what the Yankees say, an' Tom 
Murphy he understood an' begun the house, 'twas 
last May." 

" Fourteen months ago," I said; " Tom Murphy 
doesn't follow Maggie's example in speed. Poor 
little Maggie tearing away on her machine, and 
Tom Murphy dawdhng about. I don't like Tom 
Murphy." 

" Ah, well," philosophically said the old man, 
" 'tis a grand house, an' sure we'll be in it before 
Christmas. Maggie has made some extra money 
by workin' at night. Thim fingers of hers is like 
lightnin'. 1*11 go an' bring you Maggie's photo- 



GALWAY 349 

graph. Herself has gone into Galway or she 
would make you a cup of tay; we have tay an' 
somethin' else for thim that's thirsty. The three 
bhoys an' the sister sinds so much a week, an' 
Maggie gives the house, an' we be intirely com- 
fortable. There's nothin' we want but the childer 
— the childer, we do be wantin' thim," and he 
sighed heavily. 

" Why don't you go to America? " I asked. 

** Maybe wun day, but 'tis the mother of Herself 
we can't lave. She's an' ould ancient one, but 
Herself does be doin' what she is tould even now, 
an' she wouldn't be let to go to America. One 
of the bhoys has been home wunce, an' Maggie is 
comin' whin the war is over, an' bringin' our 
Mary's child. She is siventeen, an' has niver seen 
Oireland." 

" What joyous days those will be," I said. 
" You look a young man to have big grand- 
children." 

" How old do you think I am, lady? " 

I looked at him standing in the sunlight, tall, 
straight, fresh-skinned, bright-eyed, and said, 
" Fifty— fifty-two." 

" Sivinty-wun," he said, " an' nivir a day's sick- 
ness in me life. Wait, lady, an' I'll bring you my 
little Yankee Maggie." 

Presently he returned with a picture in a blue 
plush frame, and I was introduced to Maggie. 



350 HERSELF— IRELAND 

She looked very American, dressed in a well- 
fitting tailored skirt and jacket, a soft blouse open 
at the neck, a straw hat simply trimmed, and 
neat, well-cut shoes. The face was honest and 
frank, the dark eyes wide apart, the nose not too 
large, the mouth firm, and the chin square. Her 
character was all expressed in the photograph. 
Capability, adaptability, quickness, perseverance, 
and rehability. Well done little Maggie across 
the sea! Your silver chain unites Ireland and 
America to your credit — and to theirs. 



CHAPTER XVII 

EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 

There are friendships like delicate flowers, that 
call for constant care and attention to keep them 
in leaf and blossom. There are other friendships 
that belong to a hardier order of plant, and by 
their own sturdy lives remain perpetual ever- 
greens. Neither silence nor absence wither their 
leaves, nor prevent their buds from blooming. 
Such a friendship is mine with Nita Shannon. 
Whether we see each other or not for years, 
whether we write constantly or lapse into silence, 
we are sure of each other. 

When I came to Ireland Nita at once bade me 
welcome to Oldcourt. Before I ever saw her I 
loved her as " Cissy's schoolgirl sister," and I 
chaperoned Cissy, a rosy, satin-skinned eighteen, in 
a cloud of white tulle and hlies of the valley, to 
her first ball. Her uncle, William Creagh, an 
agreeable bachelor and an indefatigable dancer, 
saw that we both enjoyed the evening, and Cissy, 
of a dewy freshness, was greatly admired, particu- 
larly by a dark-haired tall youth, who might have 
had a chance for her favour, but for a little con- 
tretemps which made us merry at his expense. 

After bringing Cissy back from the fifth dance 

351 



^52 HERSELF— IRELAND 

to my protecting wing, he seated himself a little 
distance away from us, began talking to another 
debutante, and nervously raised his heel from his 
dancing shoe. And that nice, broad young heel 
was quite bare. Probably his poor bachelor's sock 
suffered from a hole when he put it on, and every 
strand of black silk had been destroyed by his 
vigorous dancing. In the brilliantly lighted room 
his heel shone pink and glossy like a round, 
enamelled shell. When a young girl has laughed 
heartily at a young man romance is destroyed. 
But even with his socks quite new and whole, and 
every advantage of face and fortune. Cissy would 
have remained heart whole; for she had already 
divined her vocation to become a Run, and only 
waited to fulfil it. She thought it fair to her 
mother and to herself to see the world, and she 
did see it and enjoyed it. But an exalted duty 
called her and she left it. Not from disillusion or 
dissatisfaction in life; her surroundings were all 
happy and fortunate, and she herself was healthy 
minded, cheerful, and gay. She loved people and 
movement, and dances and balls, and theatres and 
operas; but she valued a life of holiness and self- 
abnegation and self-sacrifice more. And she gave 
the most beautiful and touching thing in the 
world, a pure, young, clean, joyous heart, to her 
self -forgetful calling. 

Nita has the same joyous nature, united to a 



EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 353 

rare sympathy and unselfishness, and enlivened by 
the daring and courage of the Irish temperament. 
The first time she mounted a horse she rode to 
hounds without losing her seat; and when Mrs. 
Morrough, her great-aunt, left her a valuable lace 
flounce, a centenarian donkey, Oldcourt, one of 
the historic places in Doneraile, and no income to 
keep up the large house and many acres, Nita said 
gaily to her mother, " Oh, we'll manage somehow," 
and she has managed, not only to keep up the 
place but to dispense constant hospitality. 

She sent " Jerry the Jarvey " to the station to 
meet me, a car-driver whose constant flow of wit 
inspired his friend Alexis Roche to make him the 
hero of a book. But Mr. Roche has filled the book 
with stories of horseplay, and not given enough of 
Jerry's reflections to do justice to his character. 
There are one or two worth remembering. 

" There's many a thing I'd say to your honour 
alone, that I wouldn't say before a witness." 

And there Jerry is not different from the rest 
of the world, for we aU say things to one another 
we would hesitate to say before a witness. 

And he shrewdly observes, " There's times when 
the truth might do better for you than any other 
thing you could lay your tongue to," and well for 
us when we realise " the time." When a woman 
speaks the truth, he might have added, it often 
passes for wit. 



354 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Miss Gladstone asked Parnell to name the 
best actor he had ever seen, and he said, " Your 
father." This was a witty answer, and quite true. 
All politicians are actors, and need to be more 
accomplished than those on the stage; for actors 
exploit mock emotions only, while politicians must 
constantly disguise their real opinions and feelings. 
I remember at the St. James' Theatre, when Guy 
Domville was produced, a play by Henry James, 
full of delicate suggestions and subtleties far above 
the heads of the gallery gods; and amidst hisses, 
catcalls, and boos, Sir George Alexander stepped 
to the footlights and said: 

" Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry the play 
has not pleased you " — his voice quivered with pain 
— " but beheve me when I say, that you have hurt 
me to the heart." 

The very Irish Member of Parliament and 
unrivalled actor sitting by my side shook his head, 
and said, " Poor Alexander, it's plain to be seen 
he's not a politician or he never would have made 
that admission." 

" And this is Doneraile," I said, as we neared the 
pretty little town in the northern part of Cork. 

" There's Canon Sheehan's house," said the jar- 
vey, pointing to a pleasant cream-coloured cot- 
tage; " he was a good man if ever there was one, 
as good as his books; and we have a thousand 
pounds for his memorial, three hundred pounds 



EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 355 

was sint from America, but by this and by that, 
they can't agree to it. Some wants one thing, 
and some wants another." 

Remembering General John Regan I asked 
" if they wanted a statue? " 

"That's just what the farmers do want; a 
statue of the Canon standin' wid a wise luk on his 
face, an' a book in his hand. But the priests and 
the people closer at home would like stained-glass 
windys for the chapel. Sure the sunlight comes 
pourin' in on the altar, an' 'twould be well for 
the light to be more subdued, an' I'm thinkin' 
'twould be windys Himself would have wanted." 

" And what do you suppose will happen? " 

"That's past all tellin'," said Jerry; " thim 
farmers do be set on an image, but the wuns for 
the windys do be very fir-rum." 

I only got a flying glimpse of Doneraile Court. 
There are many interesting country seats of 
county families scattered about Doneraile, and 
before the war fox-hunting, steeplechasing, riding, 
and soldiers from the little garrison town of 
Buttevant, a short distance away, made the little 
town gay. 

Nita and her mother were on the steps to give 
me warm welcome, and I felt at home at once in 
the cheerful mansion, which was so like many of 
the old Colonial houses in Virginia. What a vast 
difference there is in houses. Those that are low- 



356 HERSELF— IRELAND 

lying, damp, and closed in with dark shrubbery, 
seem to hold all the tragedies and unhappiness of 
the former owners, while those open to the air 
and light are cheerful, and seem to be impressed 
with the gaiety and happiness of past generations. 
The gardens of Oldcourt lie to the right, and the 
climate is so mild in that part of the country, that 
flowers bloom late in the autumn and early in the 
spring. In front of the house is a wide open 
sweep of lawn, which invites every ray of sun- 
shine and ensures a cheerful distance between the 
splendid trees and woods which surround the place. 
It was a fragrant, lovely, midsummer moon- 
light night, and after dinner we sat on the porch. 
The lawn had been mown, and there was a scent of 
sweet vernal in the air from a small haystack not 
far away. From it apparently proceeded a long, 
gentle whistling, not unmusical, snore. Nita said 
she thought a drunken tramp had gone to sleep 
under the fresh straw, and she must go down to 
the lodge and get Murphy to rouse him up and 
persuade him away. I assured her it was only a 
cow with adenoids, but that theory was unsatis- 
factory, and finally we both tip-toed gently over to 
the haystack, circled around it, and there was 
neither man nor beast to be seen. The sound 
ceased, and only recommenced when we were in 
our bedrooms. After dinner the next evening the 
same whistling snore began again, and Philip 




« 
O 

O 



EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 357 

Barry, who was dining with us, said it was an 
owl and proved it by going to an old oak tree at 
the right of the haystack and rousing up a big 
horned owl, who uttered a sharp protesting note at 
being disturbed from his whisthng slumbers and 
flew away. 

I looked in vain for the most cheerful ghost in 
all the ghost world — " The Radiant Boy " — who, 
clothed in dark blue, is bright with stars and sits 
on an old iron gate on the Mallow Road, threaten- 
ing to throw a brilliant missile at the passer-by. 
He was not always an open-air ghost, for about 
a hundred years ago, which is no time at all in 
Ireland, Captain Stuart came to Fort Lewis, now 
called " Wilkinson's Lawn," and having lost his 
way craved the hospitality of Colonel Wilkinson 
for the night, who made him welcome, but, as his 
house was overflowing with guests, gave him a 
room which was rarely used. A bright fire of 
logs blazed on the hearth and a good mattress and 
clean bedclothes had been placed not far from it. 
Tired from the day's shooting and wandering in 
unknown country, he soon slept soundly. But 
at twelve o'clock he awoke; the roaring fire was 
blackened ashes and a Boy luminous with silver 
stars stood before him. He was terribly frightened 
and hid his head under the bedclothes, but the light 
seemed to penetrate through the blankets, and 
when he looked out the Boy was still there. In 



358 HERSELF— IRELAND 

the morning he told his experience to Colonel 
Wilkinson, who said with the house full he had 
been obliged to put him in the " Boy's Room," but 
he hoped a blazing fire would discourage the ap- 
parition — evidently it had not. 

When Fort Lewis was burnt down, it was then 
the Boy appeared sitting on the old iron entrance 
gate of Ballydineen House. He only makes rare 
appearances now, which is a pity as he must be a 
lovely shining apparition. And he is only one of 
the many Doneraile ghosts of decided originality. 

Nine green cats continually march up and down 
the Glen that begins at Byblox and ends at Bally- 
dineen. They cry out in hollow voices, " Ohee — 
Ahyeh ! " Perhaps these green ghosts were starved 
for milk, as they often run up and overturn the 
milk cans of maids or men milking in the morn- 
ing. An ovoid-shaped ball of soft yellow light 
keeps about three feet from the ground and travels 
from Ballyandrew into Doneraile Park. But if 
any one comes near it, a semi-transparent racing 
skeleton is seen to hold the ball in bis hands. The 
Far Dharrig seems to be a most attractive ghost, 
as he answers the description of a favourite china 
figure, being a rosy-faced little man about three 
feet high, dressed in green breeches, a gay red 
coat, and a black sugar-loaf hat. He never wan- 
ders, but confines himself to Ballydineen. 

I went as late as I could to Doneraile Bridge, 



EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 359 

hoping to meet the flying yellow dog which 
watches the road at the turnpike, waiting for a 
black ram. When he appears they both proceed 
to other interesting friends in Oldcourt church- 
yard. Probably they confine themselves to the 
orthodox midnight appearance, and I, not late 
enough for that, missed them. A man dressed in 
a tall hat, knee-breeches, and frieze coat also walks 
Oldcourt Bridge at midnight. Another attractive 
ghost connected with Doneraile Park is the Pooka, 
a shaggy, black colt with mild eyes, who now and 
again is seen trotting into the Park. The first 
Viscount Doneraile occasionally rides in the Park 
himself with a full pack of hounds in pursuit of 
a stag. Many people have heard the horn, and cry 
of the dogs, and the hoofs of the horses as they 
rush past. 

The night that the fourth Viscount Doneraile 
died, in the month of August, a farmer from 
Sycamore was going to Mallow driving a mare 
and cart. Just outside Doneraile on the Mallow 
Road, near the Kennels, a shaggy monster hound 
bounded over the wall and preceded a great 
coach drawn by four headless horses. Rushing 
out of the Kennel gate they were followed by a 
second great hound, and they all ran in the direc- 
tion of Doneraile. The eyes of the farmer's mare 
started out of her head, she sprang forward as if 
she had received a cut from a whip, and ran until 



360 HERSELF— IRELAND 

she was white with foam, and he had to go back 
with her to Sycamore. 

A romantic Doneraile ghost is a daughter of 
Wilham St. Leger, who about 1573 fell in love 
with a young Irish chieftain. Her father set his 
stern face against this union of hearts, and Roche 
was killed at Crognaru by the followers of Sir 
William. The young lady went into a decline and 
was found dead near a wall between Crognaru and 
Ballyandrew; and to this day, when night falls, 
like a big whire moth she drops over the wall and 
waits in the same trysting-place to meet her 
ghostly lover. The second Viscount Doneraile is 
also restless, as he is frequently met, dressed in 
leggings and hunting costume, riding a powerful 
black horse toward Richardstown. 

Doneraile Court has many interesting stories 
connected with it, but none better known than the 
history of the Hon. Elizabeth St. Leger, who in 
1713 was initiated into the mysteries of Free- 
masonry. 

The Lodge at that time was held in a room to 
the west side of the entrance hall. The partition 
was undergoing repair, and one of the bricks had 
tumbled down near the chair where Miss St. Leger 
had been reading a somnolent book which had put 
her to sleep. When she awakened she heard voices 
in the next room, saw the proceedings of the 
Lodge, and becoming agitated opened the door 



EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 361 

to enter the hall and met Tyler, Lord Doneraile's 
butler, who was evidently a Mason, for he at once 
called his master. After a consultation of the 
members, they decided the best way out of the diffi- 
culty was to make the eavesdropper a Freemason. 
Doubtless she made a very creditable one, for her 
portrait represents a strong-minded lady, painted 
in a Freemason's apron, with her hand resting on 
the open page of the Book of Mysteries, and her 
finger pointing to an important chapter. Lady 
Castletown has one of the jewels she wore, and the 
other is in the Lodge at Cork. 

I knew a Southern lady who was a Freemason. 
She was a young, beautiful bride, the wife of a 
distinguished Confederate officer, and her planta- 
tion lay directly in the route of Sherman's march 
to the sea. All houses were to be burned, she was 
alone, the fate of the women was uncertain ; to give 
her protection her husband asked that she should 
receive the first degree of the order of Freemasons. 
This is probably the only instance of a woman 
Freemason in America. 

The Right Hon. Lord Doneraile raised a Volun- 
teer Corps called the Doneraile Rangers in 1779. 
It consisted of a cavalry corps of light dragoons. 
They were magnificent in scarlet uniform faced 
with green and edged with white, and gold epau- 
lets, buttons, and helmets. The March of the 
Doneraile Rangers was so inspiring, that when one 



362 HERSELF— IRELAND 

of the soldiers was sentenced to death in Dubhn, 
he asked the Sheriff to allow him as a last favour 
to dance on the scaffold to this lively tune. To see 
a dance of death attracted a large crowd. Lady 
Doneraile driving in her carriage asked why they 
had assembled, and was told the circumstances. 
She bade the coachman whip the horses to Dublin 
Castle, and got a reprieve. It would have been 
a crime against gaiety to execute a man with so 
irresponsible a temperament that he could nimbly 
caper on the scaffold with a rope around his neck. 
Doneraile Court dates back to 1636, when Sir 
WiUiam St. Leger bought various lands. The 
house, which faces the River Awbeg (Spenser's 
MuUa), is surrounded by many beautiful acres; 
the extensive gardens include a wilderness, a laby- 
rinth, and a canal; at the end of the demesne the 
river is broad and deep. In the fine deer park the 
trees — tall elms, ash, birch, Spanish chestnuts, 
gnarled oaks and beautiful fir trees — grow to a 
magnificent height. The elaborate and exquisite 
gardens, so beloved by Lady Castletown, with their 
thickets of herbaceous borders and great beds of 
flowers — which include almost every plant that 
blooms — with all their loveliness, are of less inter- 
est to me than the many legends connected with 
the place. I do not know whether Lord Castle- 
town has ever seen any of the Good People, but 
he believes in them; and I imagine in that fra- 



EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 363 



grant, friendly old garden they often dance until 
the break of day. 

There is a famous curse connected with Done- 
raile, which is of more than usual interest, as it 
afterwards was changed into a blessing: 



" Alas ! how dismal is my 

tale 
I lost my watch in 

Doneraile. 
My Dublin watch, my 

chain and seal 
Pilfer'd at once in 

Doneraile. 
May fire and brimstone 

never fail, 
To fall in showers on 

Doneraile, 
May all the deadly fiends 

assail 
The thieving town of 

Doneraile. 
As lightnings flash across 

the vale 
So down to Hell with 

Doneraile. 
The fate of Pompey at 

Pharsale, 
Be that the curse of 

Doneraile." 



" How vastly pleasing is 

my tale, 
I found my watch at 

Doneraile. 
My Dublin watch, my 

chain and seal. 
Were all restored at 

Doneraile. 
May fire and brimstone 

ever fail, 
To hurt or injure 

Doneraile. 
May neither fire nor foe 

assail 
The generous town of 

Doneraile. 
May hghtnings never 

singe the vale 
That leads to darling 

Doneraile. 
May Pompey's fate at 

old Pharsale, 
Be still reversed at 

Doneraile." 



In 1829 there was a conspiracy at Doneraile, 
and the men suspected were in great danger of 



364 HERSELF— IRELAND 

their lives, until the eleventh hour when O'Con- 
nell was employed to defend them. After travel- 
ling all night he arrived at Cork and proceeded 
to the Court where a simple breakfast was served 
him. On hearing the legal proposition unguard- 
edly stated by the Solicitor-General, O'Connell, 
with his mouth full of bread and milk, spluttered 
out, " That is not law." The Solicitor-General 
insisted it was, and the Court was appealed to ; the 
decision rested in O'Connell's favour. Rather 
crestfallen, the Solicitor-General was soon pulled 
up again for referring to an Act of Parliament 
which O'Connell knew was only passed for a 
limited time. " That Act has expired," he called 
out. This was the second blow, and all through 
the trial he hectored the Solicitor-General; and, 
not content with browbeating the witnesses, he 
finally succeeded in browbeating the Solicitor- 
General himself. During the proceedings he 
threatened him with impeachment in the House of 
Commons for his unfair mode of conducting the 
prosecution. 

" The allegation is made on false facts," the 
Solicitor-General said. 

"False facts, Mr. Solicitor," said O'Connell 
jeeringly. " How can facts be false? " 

The end of the Doneraile trial was that O'Con- 
nell succeeded in getting the witnesses in such a 
tangle, and made them contradict themselves so 



EVERGREEN FRIENDSHIP 365 

often, that the jury in five minutes brought in a 
verdict of "Not guilty." 

With his nimble mind and appreciation of the 
many sides of life, O'Connell disdained no means 
of winning a case; he even employed, if the occa- 
sion demanded, what actors would call " stage 
properties." 

At the Clare Assizes in Ennis two brothers 
named Hourigan were indicted for mahciously set- 
ting fire to a police barracks, and it was stated that 
the barracks had been ignited by means of a jar 
of pitch. O'Connell, who was employed for the 
defence, had a skillet containing pitch secretly 
placed under the chair of the chief witness, and 
over this he placed his own broad-brimmed hat so 
effectually as to conceal it. Bennett swore that 
he had observed the barrack on fire, and knew it 
was set on fire by pitch, for he smelt it. He was 
then cross-examined by O'Connell. 

" You know the smell of pitch then? " said 
O'Connell. 

" I do well," replied the witness. 

" You can smell pitch anywhere? " said O'Con- 
nell. 

" Yes, anywhere." 

"Even in this Courthouse, if it was here?" 

" Without doubt I would." 

" And do you swear you do not get the smell of 
pitch here?" asked O'Connell. 



366 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" I do solemnly swear it," replied the witness ; 
" if it was here I'd smell it." 

Then O'Connell taking his hat off the skillet of 
pitch, which was placed underneath the witness's 
chair, cried, " Now go down you pitch-perjured 
rascal. Go down." 

This saved his client, for the jury in high good- 
humour discredited the witness. 



CHAPTER XVIII 

MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE AND AN IRISH 
ROMANCE 

Among other pleasant experiences in Doneraile, 
Philip Barry motored us to Mitchelstown. The 
day was perfect. An Italian sky flecked with 
silver clouds, the air balmy, and yet with a hint of 
the coolness of autumn underlying the warm sun- 
shine. We travelled through the county of Cork, 
which was as brilliantly green as if a June sun 
shone upon the grass and late blooming flowers. 
There were many points of interest on our way. 
Kindly looking old houses with porticos of Greek 
design, picturesque cottages with thatched roofs, 
and country seats surrounded by many acres. 

"We will see," said our kind host, "midway 
between Doneraile and Buttevant, Spenser's Cas- 
tle of Kilcolman, now an ivy -grown ruin ; but it is 
possible still to climb the moss-grown staircase, 
and to view the wide and beautiful country stretch- 
ing to far-away green plains. It was on this spot 
that Spenser wrote his immortal poem of the 
* Faerie Queen,' and Sir Walter Raleigh when he 
came to visit him was welcomed by ' Colin Clout's 
Come Home Agagn.' Although the charm and 

367 



368 HERSELF— IRELAND 

beauty of Ireland has been his inspiration, Spenser 
was traitorously ungrateful to her, for he wrote a 
paper, published in 1635, advocating the abolition 
of the inhabitants." 

*' He did not realise," I said, " that though the 
Irish of that day might have suffered wholesale 
butchery, the future generation of children born in 
Ireland would have been Irish — for human beings 
are as much a product of the soil as flowers and 
plants. Nature takes aliens to her absorbing 
breast and re-nationalises them. The Pole of to- 
day is the American of to-morrow. The Eng- 
lishman of to-day is the Irishman of to-morrow. 
The great scheme of creation permits no inter- 
ference with her plans and products. It is 
impossible to circumvent her. Crepe myrtle or 
yellow jessamine will not grow out of the South. 
Edelweiss will only grow on the top of a moun- 
tain." 

" Yes," said Philip Barry, " the descendants of 
English Protestants in Ireland may re-echo Eng- 
lish opinion and sentiment, but their hearts and 
natures, and the very fibres of their being, are 
Irish. They cannot change what Irish soil, and 
clouds, and sun, and rain, and dew have made 
them. There are differences in Ireland, of course, 
between the North and the South, as there are in 
every country between the North and the South, 
but in essential points they are the same people. 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 369 

" A Northerner was trying to explain to an 
Irishman in Cork that, geographically, Ulster was 
a different part of Ireland, and the man from 
Cork said, ' Whist man ! is your nose a different 
part of your face? or your arm a different part of 
your body?' And whatever the future contains 
for Ireland, certainly Ulster is an integral part of 
it, and, contrariwise, nothing is more convincing of 
the unity of the Irish people than their diverse 
religions. The zealous Faith of the Catholics, and 
their strenuous example, have made Protestants 
almost equally deyout in the practise of their re- 
ligion." 

" Both Protestants and Catholics," I said, 
*' seem to me simple people, easily influenced and 
led by their leaders, politicians, who for the most 
part of all classes, creeds, and countries are look- 
ing to their own interests. Spenser, though a poet, 
was a politician, and he paid dearly, if I remember, 
for his bitter advocacy of Irish race annihilation. 
His castle was burned, and he and his family 
escaped with difficulty to England, where, having 
contracted pneumonia on his perilous voyage, he 
died almost penniless. But tell me about Mitchels- 
town, is it an old castle? " 

" No, the castle is modern, but the ancestry of 
the Kingston family goes back to FitzGibbon the 
White Knight, a man who betrayed his kinsman 
Desmond at the instigation of Sir Walter Raleigh, 



370 HERSELF— IRELAND 

and thus kept his four hundred thousand acres — 
a splendid estate once upon a time, but now poor 
and heavily encumbered. I've got a book in my 
pocket with a description by an Englishman, who 
wrote seventy years ago, of Mitchelstown ; it an- 
swers to-day. Perhaps you will read it to us." 

" From afar off, as soon as the traveler enters 
the beautiful valley which bears its name, the tower 
and battlements of Mitchelstown are distinguished 
rising above the surrounding woods. The gates 
are at all hours open to the public; it is said that 
nothing delights Lord Kingston so much as to see 
people enjoying themselves in his demesne. In 
England the passage of vehicles through the Park 
would be considered by most squires an annoyance, 
but at Mitchelstown Lord Kingston would scarcely 
permit a carriage to enter without rushing out to 
greet the occupants and inviting them to make a 
survey of his castle and its grounds. 

" 'No long, chilling avenue depresses the visitor 
before the lawn and pleasure-grounds are reached, 
and the Castle stands before you, a pile of cas- 
tellated buildings, extensively and elegantly pro- 
portioned, and built of stone of the purest white, 
quarried from the hills of the estate. 

" Nothing can be more simple in arrangement 
than the interior. A noble flight of steps leads 
from the entrance-doors into the gallery, 150 feet 
in length. At the other end of this gallery a cor- 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 371 

responding flight of stairs leads to the upper 
chambers. The gallery is lighted by many oriel 
windows, the fire-places are of knightly character 
and blazon, designed expressedly for the Castle. 
Doorsteps from the gallery open into the noble 
reception-rooms, and overhead are two ranges of 
bed-chambers, sixty principal and twenty inferior 
bedrooms. In an emergency as many as a hundred 
persons have been accommodated with chambers 
in the mansion. 

" The stables of the Douglases, made famous by 
Sir Walter Scott, did not boast more ample ac- 
commodation. Four-and- twenty steeds may here 
be kept ready for war or chase. 

" The gardens of Mitchelstown have long been 
celebrated; the noble Earl himself took special 
pleasure in them. It is indeed a remarkable sight 
to see, as far as the eye can reach, festoons and 
bunches of grapes; some of them are the black 
Hamburgh variety brought to the utmost per- 
fection here, and there is one vine said to rival in 
size and fruit the famous vine of Hampton Court. 
There is a lodge for the reception of picnic parties, 
who from time immemorial have been permitted 
the free range of grounds and gardens, and to 
inspect the castle on application at the door. 
Many a family fault and failing may be con- 
sidered amply remedied by this attention to the 
Stranger, 



372 HERSELF— IRELAND 

" When English people hear of a nobleman's 
seat which there is difficulty in visiting, they can 
contrast it with Mitchelstown, where every visitor 
of whatever station is provided for, welcomed, and 
even invited to return. Lord Kingston does that 
which the well-br^d noblemen of England are far 
too slow to do; invites to Mitchelstown, without 
distinction of rank or title, all who can derive 
enjoyment from it. 

" ' If you are a scholar,' says the noble lord, 
writing a friend, * you shall be conducted to scenes 
recounted in history; if you are a lover of the pic- 
turesque, you shall have a room with a dozen beau- 
tiful prospects; if you are a sportsman, the horse 
and hounds invite you to follow them; and there 
are hills abounding with grouse, and streams alive 
with trout. Bring your gun, or rod, or pencil, or 
your book, you shall be equally welcome and 
equally gratified.' " 

" There," I said. " Isn't that a splendid de- 
scription of a castle and Irish hospitality?" 

" Naturally," said Philip Barry, " with this 
open-hearted and exhaustless hospitality, the Earl 
of Kingston got into money difficulties. A mort- 
gage was to be foreclosed, writs were issued. For 
a time the martial spirit of his ancestors asserted 
itself, Lord Kingston and his friends held a sort of 
siege against the Sheriff and his men, but eventu- 
ally the Castle doors were opened, the Earl of 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 373 

Kingston drove away, and the men took possession 
of the Castle and its property." 

" And are we to meet the present Earl of 
Kingston? " 

" No, the Castle has passed into the hands of Mr. 
William Downes Webber, through the death of his 
wife, a Countess of Kingston." 

Meanwhile we had neared the little town of 
Mitchelstown and asked a fresh-faced young coun- 
tryman whether to turn to the right or the left, and 
he answered in a manner characteristically Irish — 
" Go to the right, it will take you through the 
town and you will come to a little round square; 
pass to the left of the round square, then take the 
road straight on, and that will lead you to 
Mitchelstown Castle." He made a gesture of a 
half -circle with one arm, and cut an angle with the 
hand and wrist of the other, to indicate the topog- 
raphy of a round square. We followed his direc- 
tions and found the " square " but not the 
" round." A few minutes later the Castle was 
disclosed to us. It was built by the Earl of King- 
ston in anticipation of a visit of George IV, who 
said on his arrival at Howth, " Kingston, King- 
ston, you black-whiskered, good-natured fellow, I 
am delighted to see you in this hospitable country.'* 

*' The Irish are not snobs," said Nita, " but 
being instinctively gentlefolk — they have tradition 
behind them to make them so — they appreciate 



374 HERSELF— IRELAND 

other gentlefolk. If a Royalty had lived among us, 
had appealed to our loyalty, had encouraged our 
industries, and had appreciated our exalted ideal 
of nationality. The Irish Question would have 
been settled long ago. But the Royalties have 
been afraid of Ireland. They have believed every- 
thing which has been told them by interested poli- 
ticians, and Ireland has been, and is, a victim to 
ignorance and misrepresentation." 

The door opened and disclosed a fine wide hall, 
splendidly lighted and hospitable in atmosphere. 
In spite of its great size Michelstown is all that a 
castle should be, and usually is not. The windows 
are large enough to let in plenty of light and air, 
and the huge house is easily heated. The rooms 
are magnificently spacious, and the bedroom fur- 
nished for King George is solidly impressive and 
pleasingly luxurious. The wall is hung in a 
French paper, that one often sees in the chateaux 
of France; it gives the impression of old-rose bro- 
cade drapery; the windows are warm with rich silk 
hangings, and the view of the distant mountains is 
enchanting. The carpet is thick enough to render 
the heaviest footsteps noiseless. The fine old bed 
is of noble size, with unfaded hangings, and 
George Rex missed some delightful nights' rest 
in it. 

We were cordially welcomed by Mr. Webber: 
the name sounds German but, as a matter of fact, 




^ 



o 

H 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 375 

this gentleman is the scion of an old Irish family. 
Charles Lever has not created a more amusing 
character than Frank Webber in Charles O'Mal- 
ley. Mr. Wilham Downes Webber has a pretty- 
taste himself in literature, and possesses a large 
library and an unique history of Mexico. He has 
been a traveller in many lands, has collected many 
mementos, and is a remarkably vigorous gentle- 
man, rising eighty, but still walking vigorously and 
riding on horseback in the early morning. He 
showed us through the rooms and even the base- 
ment which, in spite of the humid climate of Ire- 
land, is perfectly dry and light. There are in- 
numerable kitchens, still-rooms, sculleries, wine- 
cellars, laundries, drying-rooms, plate-rooms, and, 
in fact, space for every conceivable convenience in 
keeping a great house clean and in order. 

I remember when visiting Ashburnham Place, 
Lord Ashburnham spoke of his need of small 
rooms. There was no place for a lonely man to 
sit and be cosy; for the library, dining-room, 
drawing-rooms, and billiard-room were all of such 
vast proportions that the shadows in the corners 
gave one quite an eerie feeling. The Earl of 
Kingston has provided just such a small, com- 
plete house in one wing of the Castle ; it comprises 
a moderate-sized dining-room and library, a small 
boudoir, cosy bedrooms, and a good kitchen and 
accommodation for a limited stajff of servants. 



376 HERSELF— IRELAND 

Mr. Webber prefers himself to live in the Castle, 
but he sometimes lends this suite of apartments 
to friends for the summer. 

The Castle is built upon the site of the man- 
sion, which was once surrounded by the present 
beautiful grounds; the high wall has disappeared. 
There are many romantic stories connected with 
all the old Irish families, but none more thrilling 
than the elopement of Mary King. Her father 
was Robert, second Earl of Kingston, and he mar- 
ried in 1769 the only daughter of Richard Fitz- 
gerald, the Squire of Mount O'Phaly, County 
Kildare. 

It was discovered after the death of a young 
brother of Lady Kingston, that he had left an 
illegitimate son, who was called Henry Fitzgerald. 
The boy was so beautiful and winning that when 
his aunt saw him she constituted herself his guard- 
ian and decided to bring him up with her own 
children. And he not only won her heart, but, by 
his persuasive and singular charm, he conquered 
the affections of the whole Kingston family, par- 
ticularly of his little cousin Mary, a child who 
gave promise of being a great beauty. And, be- 
side his power of fascination, Henry Fitzgerald 
had more than the average intellect. Passing 
his examinations well, he entered the Army at the 
age of nineteen, and by dash and courage quickly 
rose to the rank of Colonel. With a tall, hand- 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 377 

some figure, flashing blue eyes, regular features, 
and a witty Irish tongue, he captured the heart of 
an heiress, married her, and became very popular 
in London Society. 

In the meantime his little cousin, Mary King, 
had grown up a remarkably beautiful girl of six- 
teen. She could have been cast for the part of 
Lady Godiva, for her splendid curling red hair, 
reaching below her ankles, covered her like a royal 
mantle. Her eyes were black, her teeth were 
pearl-white, her figure was charming, and her 
smile was said to be enchanting. Her cousin, re- 
garded by the family as a son and brother, had 
ample opportunity of intimate intercourse with 
this lovely maiden, who, like a goddess, was the 
personification of health, strength, and beauty, and 
like a goddess she as mysteriously disappeared. 
Going out to walk upon the lawn one morning she 
was seen no more. 

There were a thousand theories as to her dis- 
appearance; gipsies had been seen in the neigh- 
bourhood, and it was thought she might have been 
abducted and forcibly carried away to be a gipsy 
queen. But the gipsies were watched, and they 
seemed quite satisfied with their own swarthy 
ruler. The country and London were searched by 
the Earl and his friends, but nothing was discov- 
ered. The little river near Mitchelstown and even 
the Thames was dragged. A small fortune was 



378 HERSELF— IRELAND 

offered in reward for information which would 
lead to the discovery, in life or death, of the beau- 
tiful young girl, " tall and slim, with brilliant com- 
plexion, dark eyes, and thick braids of red hair; " 
so the bills described her. 

But not even a rumour reached the distracted 
parents ; it seemed as if she had been spirited away 
by black magic, so complete was the silence. The 
Countess of Kingston grew pale and thin, mourn- 
ing her missing daughter; the Earl of Kingston 
became nervous and irritable under the constant 
speculation and strain. Finally, the family left 
Mitchelstown and moved nearer London. The 
police came and went almost daily to the house to 
try and obtain a fresh clue. 

During all this time Henry Fitzgerald was un- 
remitting in his efforts to find his cousin. He was 
constantly with her father. He helped to drag the 
Thames. He continually interviewed the detec- 
tives. He was always hopeful of finding the girl, 
and he was a source of consolation and strength to 
the anguished mother. 

At length some uncertain information reached 
Lord Kingston which made him hope that his 
daughter was still alive. The post-boy one day 
informed him that he was employed by a stranger, 
a handsome gentleman, to drive him the week 
before to London. As they were about a mile 
from the city, they overtook a beautiful young 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 379 

lady walking on the road, she was tall, with dark 
eyes, and splendid braids of hair which stood out 
like a halo from either side of her head. The 
gentleman, who was driving, asked if she was going 
to London, and she said yes. The gentleman was 
then mighty civil, and said, " If you will take a 
seat, Madam, I will put you down at your own 
door." She thanked him, and entered the car- 
riage. When they got as far as Temple Bar he 
put them down and they seemed quite friendly and 
went away together. The gentleman paid him 
very well. The description answered so accurately 
to Mary King's appearance that Lord Kingston 
put forth fresh efforts to find his daughter. He 
spoke to Colonel Fitzgerald, who seemed deeply 
impressed by the information, but there was no 
further news of her, and but for her singularly 
beautiful rich hair, the mystery might have re- 
mained for ever unsolved. 

In those days maidservants read very little. 
And some of them could not read at all. But in 
the lodging-house where Mary King lived one of 
them seems to have been the usual sharp, observant 
London slavey. She placed the Honourable Mary 
under observation, and one day, unexpectedly 
entering the young lady's room, she saw a pair of 
sharp scissors and a great mantle of lovely waving 
red hair lying on the counterpane, and Mary King 
in short curls stood weeping by the bed. The maid 



380 HERSELF— IRELAND 

managed to secure a lock of this wonderful hair, 
and with it she journeyed to the house occupied 
by the Kingstons. When she asked for the 
Countess of Kingston it was with such mysterious 
assurance that the butler unhesitatingly led her 
to the Countess, saying the young woman wanted 
to see her on a matter of great importance. After 
the door of the boudoir was closed, she told the 
story of the beautiful young lady who lived in a 
lodging-house in Clayton Street, Kennington, with 
her husband, a very handsome and distinguished 
gentleman. He had brought her there about three 
weeks before, and he was very loving to her, but 
was sometimes absent. The young lady would 
then stand looking out of the window for hours, 
weeping, and one day she had sobbed aloud and 
cut off all her beautiful hair. The girl then handed 
the long red curl to Lady Kingston, who pressed it 
to her heart, almost fainting. 

At this moment Colonel Fitzgerald opened the 
door and entered the room. He had arrived for 
one of his usual visits of sympathy and condolence. 
When the servant-maid saw him she divined a 
tragedy, and rising to her feet made a dramatic 
gesture, saying, " That is the man, my lady." 
" No ! Oh, my God, no ! " said Lady Kingston, 
and fainted. Frightened and confounded, Colonel 
Fitzgerald rushed from the house. He was 
quickly followed by Lord and Lady Kingston, 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 381 

who found their daughter in Kennington. They 
were able to persuade her to start at once with 
them to Mitchelstown. The girl had been brought 
up in the shadow of the beautiful Galtee Moun- 
tains and was homesick for the open-air life of 
Ireland. She was only sixteen, and no young girl 
of that age has a realisation of the grand passion. 
Romance, adventure, many things may appeal to 
her, but not an abiding love. I daresay that in a 
short time she was forgetful, quite happy, and 
properly repentant, but according to the manner of 
the times, the outraged family honour required 
vindication. Girls of the present day protect their 
own honour. In the eighteenth century men did it 
for them. 

Robert King, Mary's brother, challenged 
Colonel Fitzgerald to a duel, and it was fought in 
Hyde Park — probably near the Serpentine, in the 
early morning in October, 1797. The two young 
men stood under the splendid trees, only ten paces 
away from each other. Colonel Fitzgerald was 
alone, as he had not been able to find, among all 
his fashionable friends, any man who would act 
as his second. His conduct in their eyes, and in 
the eyes of the whole world, had debarred him to 
all claim of gentlemanhood. These cousins, who 
had been brought up as brothers, no doubt were 
both filled with emotion, and their hands were 
unsteady, for no less than four shots were fired 



382 HERSELF— IRELAND 

without effect. Perhaps, in spite of all that had 
happened, neither wished to kill the other. When 
the last shot went astray. Colonel Fitzgerald said 
quite humbly: 

" May I ask advice from you, Major Wood, as 
a friend?" Major Wood said, "I disclaim any 
friendship now and for ever with you. Colonel 
Fitzgerald, but if you acknowledge your base 
conduct, the affair is at an end." Colonel Fitz- 
gerald replied, " I am willing to admit that I have 
acted wrongly." Major Wood was not satisfied 
with so tepid an apology. The duel was renewed, 
and two more shots were exchanged without injury 
to the combatants. Colonel Fitzgerald, having 
fired all the powder he had brought, asked Major 
Wood to supply him with more, or to allow him 
the use of one of Robert King's pistols. Major 
Wood declined both of these proposals, and said 
the duel would have to be renewed the next morn- 
ing; but the police got wind of it and arrested both 
the young men. When they were set at liberty. 
Colonel Fitzgerald travelled incognito to Ireland, 
with the intention of persuading Mary King to a 
second elopement, and he went to live in the httle 
town of Mitchelstown, which is not far from the 
Castle. Probably the hotel that stands there now 
was the veritable inn that gave him hospitality. 

The innkeeper was both curious and suspicious 
about his distinguished and solitary guest, a gen- 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 383 

tieman in manner and bearing, who knew nobody 
in the neighbourhood, and, both strong and active, 
shut himself up in his room by day and only ven- 
tured out by night. 

At this time the Kilworth Mountains were the 
hiding-place of a very well-known band of high- 
way robbers. Captain Brennan, a handsome, reck- 
less dare-devil, was not unlike Colonel Fitzgerald 
in appearance ; and it was a natural mistake of the 
innkeeper to tell Lord Kingston that he was sure 
he harboured under his roof the veritable highway- 
man, for whom Lord Kingston in command of the 
Yeomanry was searching. The anxious father in- 
stantly suspected a case of mistaken identity, and 
he resolved that if another duel was fought, it 
should not be a bloodless encounter. Seeing Lord 
Kingston's rage, and not being able to define the 
reason, the innkeeper betrayed his nervousness to 
Colonel Fitzgerald, who took alarm and left 
Mitchelstown for Kilworth. 

It was evening when Lord Kingston and his 
son. Colonel King, arrived at the hotel in Kil- 
worth. He asked whether a guest had arrived 
there that day, and was told that a handsome gen- 
tleman had just gone to his room. Lord King- 
ston sent the waiter with his compliments to the 
unknown guest, and said he wished to see him on a 
matter of business. The door was locked, and 
Colonel Fitzgerald did not open it, but called out 



384 HERSELF— IRELAND 

that owing to the late hour he could not attend to 
any business. Lord Kingston recognised the 
seductive voice of his ungrateful nephew, and he 
and his son went to the door and loudly knocked, 
demanding entrance. There was silence, but the 
lock was weak, it yielded to pressure; and they 
rushed into the bedroom to find Colonel Fitz- 
gerald dressed and armed with a brace of pistols. 

Robert King seized and tried to disarm him. 
The two men were clasped in a silent, death-like 
grip, when Lord Kingston, trembling with ex- 
citement, fired, and Fitzgerald fell. Dr. Pigot, 
of Kilworth, was sent for, but could do nothing. 
And Henry Fitzgerald only lived a few minutes. 
When he ceased to breathe Lord Kingston rode 
like the wind to More Park, dismounted, and 
sought his brother-in-law, saying, " My God, I've 
killed him! I don't know how I did it. But — 
oh, I most sincerely wish it had been by another 
hand than mine." He then offered to take his 
trial. 

Bills of indictment were prepared and put be- 
fore a grand jury, which was composed of gentle- 
men of the highest rank. The Earl of Kingston 
and his son Robert were charged with the crime of 
murder. Subsequently, the Indictment formed at 
the Cork Spring Assizes was moved by certiorari 
to the High Court of Parliament, in order that the 
Earl should be tried by his Peers. On the 18th 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 385 

of May, 1798, the House of Lords in Dublin ac- 
quitted him, there being no evidence to sustain 
the Indictment. Robert King and John Harvey, 
a friend, who were with him the night of the mur- 
der, were tried by Petty Jury. They were ac- 
quitted, for no witnesses could be brought forward 
to sustain the prosecution. 

Probably Colonel Henry Fitzgerald's friends 
could more easily have forgiven his elopement with 
Mary King of the beautiful hair — for well could 
the reckless man have said, "And she strangled 
my soul in a mesh of her gold-coloured hair " — 
than his unforgivable sin, black hypocrisy. 

When one thinks of his daily visits to the 
Countess ; his frank demeanour to Lord Kingston, 
and his constant interviews with the detectives, 
shooting seems too good for him. 

His wife, who apparently sank into an early 
insignificance, I hope was consoled by a more 
honourably minded gentleman, after her husband's 
timely death. 

Mary King's story had an unexpected and con- 
ventional ending, not at all in accord with her 
dramatic debut. For she neither ran away a 
second time, nor did she go on the stage. She went 
instead to England, under the name of one of the 
collateral branches of her family, and lived with 
the widow of a clergyman of the established 
Church of Wales. This lady was the head of the 



386 HERSELF— IRELAND 

house of her son, a young clergyman, who must 
have been a man of parts, as he possessed a com- 
fortable living. He seems conveniently devoid of 
curiosity, for he knew nothing, nor did he ask 
anything, about the enchanting being, gifted with 
charm, a lovely person, and an eloquent Irish 
tongue, who was living under his roof. 

Mary King missed her true vocation in not 
becoming an actress, as her sense of drama is 
undeniable. Like Wilkie CoUins's New Magdalen, 
she was moved to make a thrilling confession, say- 
ing that she had been reading a book — she did not 
add that it was a book of life — and in appealing 
tones, with suppressed emotion, she revealed her 
wrong, her flight, her discovery, her return to her 
beloved mountains, and her final repentance. The 
cleric was deeply moved at her convincing recital, 
and at the psychological moment she fervently ex- 
claimed, " Behold, I am the Woman." — And a 
very considerable woman she was, especially for a 
clergyman to tackle. However, he must have felt 
himself equal to the task, although at the moment, 
he is described as being naturally shocked. But 
Mary King had been a very young Magdalen. 
Her eyes were very bright, and her voice was very 
sweet. He said, what man has said from time 
immemorial to beautiful woman under like cir- 
cumstances, — and what he will say ever again, 
— that, " She was more sinned against than 



MITCHELSTOWN CASTLE 387 

sinning." Long red hair is a valuable asset for 
a sinner. 

Her spiritual adviser so greatly pitied that it 
did not take him long to forgive, — nor to love 
her. He desired to compensate her for all she 
had suffered, and, as an honourable gentleman, 
offered her the protection of his hand, which she 
gratefully accepted, and became after marriage a 
most devoted wife and mother, and an exemplary 
parson's lady. Thus the thrilling romance of a 
three-volume novel ended unexpectedly in a peace- 
ful rectory in Wales. 



MY IRISH YEAR 

The Irish say, " The first thread is not of the 
piece," so I have given myself time enough 
in Ireland for the weaving of threads. Three 
American naval officers stationed in Queenstown, 
were talking to me to-day. One of them said the 
best book on China was written by a man who had 
never been in it. This may be possible of China, 
but it could not be true of Ireland. There are so 
many misrepresentations of the country, the cli- 
mate, and the people, that to form a correct judg- 
ment each individual must see for himself. I 
have lived in Ireland considerably over a year now, 
and I can only speak of the people as I have 
found them: agreeable, obliging, and easy to get 
along with. And reHable? Quite as rehable as 
any other nationahty, for as Josh Billings said, 
when some one asked him what he thought of the 
French people, " Human nature generally pre- 
vails." Sometimes it is more, sometimes it is less, 
and in a different manner — but it prevails, until 
we go Up or Down, as the case may be. 

I have travelled a good deal, and in my opinion 
the two nations the least greedy for money are the 
Norwegians and the Irish. And Ireland offers to 
those of moderate income almost every advantage. 

388 



MY IRISH YEAR 389 

Life in the country is most agreeable. Horses 
are good; labour is cheap; vegetables and flowers 
are easily raised; and people are not straining 
every nerve to dress fashionably and live with 
extravagance of detail; health, neighbourliness, 
an outing now and then, this constitutes their 
happiness. 

And Dublin is pre-eminently a comfortable 
place to live. Large enough for independence of 
thought and action, and small enough to have peo- 
ple humanly interested in one's welfare. The old 
Georgian houses with their beautiful front doors, 
fanlights, stucco, ornamentations, and fine mantel- 
pieces are to be had at a low rental, or there are 
small houses in Rathmines or elsewhere of de- 
cided prepossessing individuahty. A httle grey 
house in Wellington Place, with two tall chim- 
neys, looks like a fairy godmother's house; there 
are raspberry bushes and a cherry tree in the gar- 
den, and I envy the occupants of it. The wages of 
servants are very moderate. The markets are 
good. " Little dressmakers " are excellent, and 
the Sisters of Charity do exquisite needlework and 
embroidery. If fashionable, smart society is de- 
sired there is the Castle, the Viceroy, the officials 
about him, and the "Castle set"; if literary so- 
ciety is the preference, there are the intellectuals 
who talk brilliantly and write brilliant books. 
Dublin is small enough to avoid fatigue, as the 11- 



390 HERSELF— IRELAND 

braries, the picture galleries, and the shops are 
within walking distance of each other. It rains 
a good deal, but the rain from silvery skies is 
light and soft; the air is pure, and there are no 
fogs. During the whole of last winter it was never 
necessary to resort to artificial light during the 
day. The blackness and gloom of London are quite 
unknown here. 

And any one with a liking for pictures, old 
mirrors and glass, enamels and china, old furni- 
ture, and old prints can make a collection in Dub- 
lin to better financial advantage than in London. 
Ireland is by no means exhausted of treasures in 
art. Quite recently a picture was sold in Galway 
for a few pounds which afterwards reahsed three 
thousand in the English market. At the sale of an 
unpretentious country mansion, the old silver, and 
Waterford glass on a moderate sized dining-table 
was estimated at being worth six thousand pounds. 
In Irish country houses there are pictures by 
Romney, Reynolds, and Hugh Hamilton — the dis- 
tinguished Irish artist — Gainsborough, Battoni, 
Kneller, Amigoni, Van Scorel, Mignard, and other 
of the immortals. 

Professor William Magennis has made his fine 
collection entirely in Dublin; among his pictures 
are examples of Lely, Rubens, Fran9ois, Boucher, 
Carlo Dulci, Caspar, Poussin, Van Artois, Van 
Uden, Teniers, Jannsen, and a number of the 



MY IRISH YEAR 391 

best-known Irish painters, among them Bingham 
Guinness, who is popular in America, Edwin 
Hayes, and Collis Watkins. If after buying an 
old picture restoration is necessary, Sir Hugh Lane 
said there was no one better than Nairn, whose 
father and grandfather were artists before him. 
Personally, my Irish year has been a pleasant 
and profitable one; the friends I have made have 
been kind — I could not have written Herself — 
Ireland without their help. The extraordinary 
memory and intelligent suggestions of Professor 
Wilham Magennis have been of especial value to 
me. And I have tested the worth of friendship 
by last winter getting a poisonous attack of com- 
municable influenza and lavishly distributing it to 
my visitors, but they generously forgave me. I 
was rather ill for some weeks, and found it possible 
to do without a nurse, from the constant care and 
attention which was ungrudgingly given me in the 
Shelbourne Hotel. When I go away from Ireland 
I shall be sorry to say good-bye, and it will warm 
my heart to return again to these kindly people 
and green shores. But — who knows — perhaps I 
shall not say good-bye! 

The Shelboubne Hotel, 
August \st, 1917. 

THE END 



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